Newmann Oneshots
by OnyxSphinx
Summary: Newt and Hermann, Hermann and Newt...or, my main OTP. Various lengths and settings.
1. 1

**The Trials and Tribulations of One Hermann Gottlieb, PhD  
** **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: ****The next morning, Newton barges into Hermann's quarters—he's still in the process of packing his items—and shoves his phone into Hermann's face. It's an article on some celebrity gossip site—the sort of thing that Hermann avoids like the plague—with a photograph of the two of them sitting at their table from the night before, Newton's head thrown back in a carefree laugh, photo-Hermann gazing at him fondly, lips slightly slanted upwards. The title reads, in a garish font, "More Than Just Lab Partners?"**

* * *

It all starts on Hermann's birthday; Newton takes him out for dinner at an upper-class restaurant-slash-space-observatory that Hermann's fairly certain he only managed to get a reservation to due to their newfound celebrity status. It goes fairly well, up until they order dessert, Newton chattering about the newly-established programs for marine-life preservation are coming, Hermann listening intently; the first indication is small: the server who brings them their drinks menu has a fond look in her eyes and a smile twitching at her lips.

Hermann doesn't realize what it means—not even when she asks, "So, you two're partners, then?" placing emphasis on _partners_ , and, out of habit, he nods.

Of course, he had _thought_ she meant partners as in _lab partners_ , not _romantic partners_.

Not that that changes anything; the evening goes off without a hitch, and then, the next morning—

The next morning, Newton barges into Hermann's quarters—he's still in the process of packing his items—and shoves his phone into Hermann's face. It's an article on some celebrity gossip site—the sort of thing that Hermann avoids like the plague—with a photograph of the two of them sitting at their table from the night before, Newton's head thrown back in a carefree laugh, photo-Hermann gazing at him fondly, lips slightly slanted upwards. The title reads, in a garish font, " _More Than Just Lab Partners?_ "

"What is this?" Hermann questions flatly. Newt throws up his hands.

"That's what _I_ want to know, dude—I went out for a bite, cuz, y'know, I haven't eaten anything in like, _ages_ , and this dude just pops out of nowhere, shoves a mic in my face and begins asking me if we're a couple!" Newton finishes, flushed, hands moving wildly as he paces the area. Hermann raises a brow.

"Realistically, this'll blow over in a week or so—it'll be a hot topic for a short amount of time before they go back to…" he checks some of the older articles, "speculating what kind of lube Ranger Beckett uses."

Newton makes a face. "They seriously write articles on that?"

Hermann shrugs, going back to his packing, and Newton flops on his bed, scrolling through the various articles on the website, vocalizing his distaste at various articles. A pang of _something_ unnamed tugs at his heart at the thought that soon, they'll go their separate ways.

* * *

It doesn't die down, contrary to Hermann's predictions; if anything, the two of them continuing as if nothing has changed—because nothing _has_ changed, except perhaps sometimes when Hermann sleeps he sees flashes of Newton's memories and sometimes he wakes up to Newton knocking on his door, face drawn and pale from a night terror, and allows the biologist to climb into his bed, reasoning that physical proximity between Drift partners will help—only adds fuel to the rumors. Day-to-day activities that require leaving the safety of the Shatterdome become a nightmare of paparazzi hounding one or both of them, until even Newton, who's always insisted he wants to be a rockstar, takes one look at the crowd of people trying to follow them into a deli and groans, "Fuck being a rockstar—can we just go back to being forgotten and undervalued?"

Hermann shares similar sentiments—he knows it's been bad for everyone, and that the press attention they're getting is paltry in comparison to what Herc Hansen, Ranger Beckett and Mako are having to deal with, but even this makes him ache.

Thankfully, it does seem to peter out a bit, to the point where Hermann almost forgets about it, after two weeks, relegated to fifty-cent celebrity tabloids.

By that point, both of them have packed up, and Hermann is only stalling on finding a new place because he isn't quite sure how to function without Newton—over the past ten years, he's become almost alarmingly codependent, and Drifting afterwards intertwined them to the point where Hermann's not quite sure where _Newton_ ends and _Hermann_ begins.

It's Newton who broaches the subject one evening, after they've had a few glasses to drink—a celebration of the third week after the apocalypse was officially cancelled. "We should get a flat together," he proposes, "I mean, no offense, but the PPDC hardly paid us fantastically and I doubt you have a giant sum of money hidden away. Plus, I keep getting emails from various colleges and universities asking for the two of us to do guest lectures together—sharing a flat would only be logical."

Hermann hums, running the thought over, and nods. "Of course—we managed not to kill each other for ten years sharing a lab. What's the worst that can happen?"

* * *

Apparently, something must've gone wrong with the papers, because the first piece of mail they get when they movie into the flat—a two-bed one-bath little place in Boston, because Newton is nostalgic—is addressed to _Doctors Geiszler-Gottlieb_.

"Newton," Hermann says, brandishing the letter at the other, who's sitting at the kitchen bar, eating a piece of toast, "what is _this_?"

Newton peers at the envelope. "Shit!" he suddenly exclaims, "Hermann, what did you sign our last letter to MIT as?"

"Doctors Geiszler and Gottlieb, why?" he questions, puzzled as two how it has any bearing on the situation. Newton groans.

"MIT recently started using a hard-copy-to-digital transcriber for letters so that they can get a copy of it to all staff, and the program is…" he trails off. "Well, it does occasionally mistake certain things as others—and you gotta admit, your ampersands look pretty similar to a hyphen."

Hermann freezes. "That's— _that's_ what happened?" he croaks, disbelieving.

"Sorry man," Newton shrugs. "We can try and get it changed, but that'll require a _lot_ of paperwork and various phone-calls. We're better off just leaving it be—it's not like it's gonna affect anything, right?"

Except, as it turns out, they've been scheduled as _Doctor Newton Geiszler-Gottlieb_ _and Doctor Hermann Geiszler-Gottlieb_ for their lecture, which brings the celebrity column writers crawling out of their offices like termites from a piece of wood that's been disturbed.

Incidentally, that is also when Hermann's _feelings_ decide to make an appearance—the very ones he'd been certain had been crushed upon his and Newton's disastrous first meeting. He finds himself lingering when he brushes against the biologist, heart thundering at a ridiculous rate when Newton makes casual physical contact with him, breath catching when the other laughs like he's some sort of teenager with a crush, never mind that Newton _was_ his teenage crush.

He does his best to ignore it—they've got better things to do, and Hermann hardly has _time_ for this—but, as always, Newton is far more blunt than he.

"So, Hermann," Newton starts one day over dinner, the two of them eating take-out on the couch. "I've been meaning to ask you something for a while—like, a long time, like, since _years ago_ —"

" _What_ ," Hermann snaps, annoyed at the interruption; they're watching _The Imitation Game_ , and he'd been riveted.

"So you remember our letters, right?" Newton asks, and Hermann sighs, pausing the movie—he can tell this isn't going to be a quick conversation.

"Yes, what of them?" he questions.

A nervous look flitters across Newton's face, and he clears his throat before continuing. "So, like, I had a bit of a crush on you, and it disappeared when we actually met, cuz, you know, that was a bit of a disaster, but then we had to share a lab for ten years and it turns out my crush _wasn't_ gone but like, we were busy trying not to _die_ , but now the apocalypse has officially been cancelled and correct me if I'm reading the situation wrong but I like you, like, a _lot_ and you seem to maybe like me as well—unless, like, the feelings I got from you in the Drift were just echoes of my _own_ feelings—, and basically I was wondering if you'd be open to maybe dating me?"

By the end of it, Newton's voice is higher than usual, face flushing from not breathing for so long, and Hermann is—

Hermann is—stunned. Happily surprised, obviously, but also stunned.

"Hermann," Newton says, hesitatingly, "you gonna say something? Like, I totally understand if you don't want to, but like, please don't leave me hanging."

Hermann tries to speak, only to let out a strangled squeak. Newton shoots him a concerned look, and Hermann clears his throat. "Yes—I'd—I'd _very much_ be open to that," he manages, and Newton grins at him.

"Can I—can I kiss you?" Newton breathes, and Hermann nods.

"Yes," he whispers, and Newton leans forward, cupping his cheek, and presses his lips against Hermann's tentatively. Hermann melts into the kiss, grasping at Newton's lapels in an attempt to stay grounded.

When they finally break apart, Newton says, voice rough, "I've wanted to do that for _years._ "

Hermann laughs, amazed, and Newton kisses him again, slow and sweet, like they've got all the time in the world.


	2. 2

**The tranquility of domestic bliss  
Rating: G  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Germann Gottlieb  
Summary: ****Or: Newt and Hermann make dessert while being sappy**

* * *

The beeping is insistent, piercing through the fog of sleep, and Newt lets out a grunt, fighting the urge to roll over and burrow his face in Hermann's shoulder. Instead, like a responsible adult–– _yes_ , he is occasionally a responsible adult, despite what Hermann says to the contrary––he forces his eyes open, stabbing at the screen of his phone to turn off the internal alarm. The sun filters through the window, partially obscured by the tulle curtains, and falls onto the cream sheets, dappled patterns softening Hermann in sleep.

He takes a moment to gaze at the other, somehow graceful in an awkward, endearing way, a smile curling at his lips, before he shakes him lightly, eliciting a muffled huff.

"Don' wanna ge' up," Hermann whines, voice sleep-addled. It's infuriatingly adorable. Regardless, they have things to do, places to go, people to meet––the war's over, sure, but they're hardly idly. Their part in cancelling the apocalypse saw to _that_.

Reaching for his glasses, Newt replies, soothingly, "I know, babe, but you've got that lecture at ten, remember? The one on Breach physics?" For a moment, there's silence before Hermann pulls the covers up and hides his face in his pillow.

"Why on _earth_ did I agree to do that?" he grumps. Newt distinctly remembers that Hermann had originally been ready to toss the offer in the trash before Newt mentioned that Lars Gottlieb had recently been on the news mocking his research as inconsequential. Specifically, that is was "useless and of no import" and that "no reputable institution" would ask him to lecture on the subject.

Through a yawn, he says, "To prove your dad wrong."

"Hmm," Hermann hums, "and you didn't goad me in any way?"

"No!" Newt exclaims, pressing a hand to his heart dramatically, "I'd never!" Hermann snorts derisively. "Hey! Have a bit of faith in me, dude! Anyway, _I_ seem to remember that _someone_ stopped me from punching Liar––er, _Lars_ last time we saw him, so..."

Okay, so they both have some latent anger towards Hermann's bastard father, but, like, it's hardly undeserved––the dude _did_ call up his son the day after they cancelled the apocalypse to lecture him on how he could've _ended it faster_ , never mind that _Hermann_ was working his ass off on a practically nonexistent amount of funding whilst Lars ran around promoting his "Wall of Life" while badmouthing Hermann's work.

Newt has _definitely_ never had to be physically restrained while around the man, no, never, him? Nah.

A hand on his shoulder brings him back to the present, and he blinks up at Hermann, who's managed to crawl out of bed and get dressed, so he must've been staring off into the distance for a while. "How do I look?" Hermann asks, fiddling with the cuffs of his jacket, uncharacteristically nervous.

Newt stands, smoothing the collar of Hermann's shirt, and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. "You look great, babe. You're gonna own this bad boy."

"By Jove, I'm going to own this thing for sure," Hermann replies, smiling at him, and Newt practically melts.

"Okay, alright, off you go, you sentimental sap," Newt urges, blinking rapidly, voice slightly choked. As he makes his way to the dresser to change into something a bit more suitable, Hermann finishes with his papers, clipping his bag shut and grabbing his cane. He stalls in the doorway, and then makes his way to Newt's side.

Hermann reaches for him, and Newt stills. Hermann gestures to a spot on his cheek. "You've got a smudge of charcoal right there, ah..." Newt rubs furiously, but to no avail, and Hermann sighs, pulling his handkerchief out, and wipes at the indicated area. "There, now, you're all ready," he says. Despite himself, Newt feels a blush.

"W––well, you'd better get going...don't want to be late," he stammers, flustered. Still, Hermann really _should_ get going––after all, he's the one with the lecture to get to, not Newt. A smile tugs at Hermann's lips, and he steps away, casting a lingering look before he leaves.

Newt spends the day grading assignments from his students—xenobiology is a surprisingly attractive class, despite it mostly being theoretical now that, you know, the Kaiju have been kicked off of Earth—that he _probably_ should've started the day before, but ignored in favor of some quality time spent cuddling with Hermann, who is surprisingly tactile.

It's weird, to be honest, how— _naturally_ they slipped into this domesticity after the war, like it was an inevitability. Tendo certainly thought it was. Perhaps he's right—they spent almost a decade in each other's orbit—even if they weren't romantically involved, there's no one else who understands Newt the way Hermann does, and vice versa. Well, that does tend to happen when you literally telepathically link to someone, doesn't it?

When Newt gets through all of the papers, the sun's past its zenith, the plate of cookies he's been steadily munching on empty. He tips his chair back on two legs, stretching with a satisfying _crack-crack-crack_ from his stiff spine, and rises, hunting through the kitchen for more cookies.

Hermann frequently scolds him for his sweet tooth, despite having one almost as large, so as a compromise, Newt's taken to cooking his own sweets, which mollifies the physicist at least slightly.

However.

There's just one problem.

He lays down on the floor, staring at the cupboard forlornly. Hermann nearly trips over him with a startled yelp, having gotten back in the time that Newt's been searching the kitchen.

"Newton," Hermann says, pinching the bridge of his nose, "what on _earth_ are you doing on the floor?"

Newt lets out a theatric sigh. "We're out of dessert."

"What," Hermann asks, deadpan.

"We're out of dessert," Newt repeats dejectedly. "No cookies, no cake, no…nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch."

"Yes, I heard you the first time," Hermann says, nudging at him with his cane. "I don't understand what that has to do with you sprawling across the kitchen floor, however."

"I'm _sad_ , dude," Newt whines, batting at the cane. Hermann's eye-roll is impressive. "I don't have the energy to make any more,"

Instead of scolding him, however, Hermann simply says, "How about we make something together."

"Wait, really?" Newt asks, stunned.

"Mhm," Hermann nods, "give me a minute to get changed and then we can see what ingredients we have." A grin splits across Newt's face and he springs up, mind going a mile a minute as Hermann makes his way to the bedroom to procure more casual clothing,

As it turns out, they don't have the ingredients for cookies, but they _do_ have the ingredients for chocolate mousse, which Newt hasn't made before but has the recipe for. He tasks Hermann with measuring—the man would go stir-crazy watching Newt eyeball the amounts—as he gets out the beaters, bowl, and sauce-pan.

Newt allows Hermann to nudge him to the side and place the chocolate, butter, and water into the sauce-pan before heading back to the refrigerator to grab the eggs. The silence is pleasant and undemanding, the two of them working in synchrony to create a light, chocolaty concoction that then gets poured into small serving bowls and placed in the refrigerator to set.

"Why do they have to be so small, though?" Newt questions.

"Because otherwise you'd eat too much and make yourself sick, liebling—there's half a stick of butter in there," Hermann shoots back, but doesn't resist when Newt steals the now-empty mixing bowl to scrape out the remainder. Newt grins at him cheekily.

After he washes his hands off, he leans in for a hug. "Thanks, Herms. That was fun."

"Of course, schatz," Hermann replies, warmly, carding a hand through his hair, and steals a kiss. "Besides, I'm sure it'll taste quite delicious."

Newt pulls him down for another, smiling against his mouth.


	3. 3

**a little too loud (or maybe not loud enough)**  
 **Rating: TV-PG-14/High T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: He can be _happy_ , if he wants, without fear of punishment. It'll be a long time before he can banish the malicious thoughts, but…he deserves to be happy.**

 **He just helped _save the goddamn world_. He deserves to be happy.**

* * *

 **TW for:  
** **-internalized homophobia**  
 **-offscreen murder**  
 **-numerous character deaths**  
 **-attempted suicide  
** **-semi-graphic description of a panic attack**

* * *

Detective William Blore dies on Soldier Island, stabbed through and through with a knife by the good Judge.

Or—well, that's not quite right. He certainly does _die—_ the blood gushes from his wound, his vision diming, the Judge's face, smiling, before he stands up to leave.

So yes: Blore does _die_.

He simply doesn't _stay_ in this state.

For some time, he floats in between, what—life, death, Heaven, Hell? Who knows? But at some point—a fortnight later, perhaps—he awakens.

The awakening is a queer thing, for his consciousness returns first, and thus, he has prime view of his surroundings: the white-washed walls, the cloth against his skin as he lays atop a metal bed, those used for cadavers. It thusly dawns on him that they must think him dead. The shadows lengthen and shorten, and he becomes aware of a tingling in his digits.

Experimentally, Blore attempts movement, the result of which is the faintest twitch of his index finger, the way one would curl it in a beckoning motion to another.'

For some time, this is the only movement—save for the blink of his eyes—he achieves. It is, to say the least, infuriating: while Blore has never deluded himself with the notion that his a particularly spry man, at two and a half decades, he is reasonably fit—his profession has ensured that. He is wholly unused to this level of restriction—though, he supposes, most would be, and he consolidates himself with the fact.

Presently, however, it occurs to him that he _did_ die, regardless of the permanence, and thusly, he is most certainly out of a job and a home.

Bother.

Additionally, it would hardly do to waltz down to the Yard and declare his state of undeath: not only is he naked, they will surely pin the blame for the death of the others on him, and even if they do not do so, he'd hang for witchcraft—after all, how else does one logically explain his survival of being stabbed in the heart? Witchcraft mayn't be real, but the consequences of acusal of it are.

"Damn," Blore mutters angrily, then rejoices at the return of his ability to speak. Then, "Fuck. Shit. Bloo—bloody hell." His tongue trips a touch at the two-syllable word, but regardless, it is progress.

Once he's regained some more motor-control, he contemplates how to proceed. Quite obviously, returning to the world as Detective-Seargeant William Blore shan't do—William Blore is, by all accounts, dead. Therefore, he fancies, he shall have to either assume an identity crafted by the Yard for espionage, or he shall have to create a brand-new identity.

The former won't do—it would be insane to adopt an identity of a dead man. Thankfully, however, he does have experience in the latter—and a sum of some amount tucked away to ease the paperwork through the great cogs that make up the library wherein the information on citizens is stored— _no, no_ , he scolds himself, to be recognized is not a risk worth taking. He will have to create a foreign identity.

 _Think, man_ , he urges. _What foreign languages do you speak?_

Latin, of course, as it's taught to all school-children to some degree, and French, conversationally. But—ah, yes: German. His late mother was fluent in German, and in addition, he speaks it quite well.

The issue thusly resolved, he turns his attention to the most imminent problem: locomotion. Certainly, of they are not already preparing his coffin, they will be soon. Time is of import.

Finally, he is certain of himself. With a grunt, teeth clenched, he levers himself up, the cloth falling away to bare his torso to the cold draft. The action reveals his chest, and he looks down fearfully; what state is he in? Is there a gaping wound, a slit through and through?

The answer, as it turns out, is neither: for there, at an angle, is a pinkened sliver of skin, a scant centimeter wide, and perhaps a finger long, above his heart.

He blinks in surprise, before remembering the situation at hand, and pulls the cloth up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

His legs nearly give out beneath him, and he makes a grab for the metal bed, bracing against it as his legs shake beneath him. Eventually, however, the tremors subside, and he draws himself up, wrapping the cloth as one would a toga, and creeps about the room till he reaches a door.

By some stroke of luck, the doors—great, big, wrought-iron things—have been left open, and he slips through.

Presently, it occurs that, though it is late in the night, he can't simply wander around in his current state—both for reasons of modesty and personal comfort. He doesn't particularly fancy wandering the halls of a morgue half-naked.

Keeping pressed against the walls, he makes his way through the corridors.

"Somewhere around here, they should keep clothing," he mutters, gripping the cloth tighter at a draft. "They wouldn't be burying the bodies naked—no, no, that would simply never do." The scandal! No, there should be a room—ah!

He hits jackpot—for there, within the first room he tries, are shelves full of clothes: petticoats, shirts, breaches, jackets, and every item of clothing imaginable, folded and stacked upon the shelves.

Quickly, he gathers a set of underthings and a shirt, vest, trousers and coat, slipping into them with a sigh of relief to have escaped the cold—yes, he shall never envy the dead again; it seems now, having gotten a taste of deceasement, he's more than content to leave it to others.

The last item is a smart black top hat, and he feels fully and properly clothed. He hurries out of the room, determined to start for himself a new life. He smiles suddenly at the thought; he's always wanted to be a new and death, it seems, has given him the perfect chance.

* * *

Having successfully withdrawn his hidden sum of money—the entirety of which amounts to just under forty pounds—he whistles cheerily as he walks along, the recent events far from his mind. In fact, so far is reality from him that he doesn't notice the ground in front of him—or rather, the _lack_ of ground.

With a startled cry, he tumbles forward and downward, hitting both his legs and his head, carrying down with him a fair amount of dirt and loose stones and wooden beams.

He lays, winded and uncertain of the situation for some time. After his eyes adjust to the darkness—for the dirt and stones are blocking most of the light—it becomes apparent where he is: underneath a half-built building. Cobwebs hang from the beams, little space for him to move—and he couldn't, even if he wanted to, as he discovers presently and quite painfully: his right leg is trapped at an odd angle beneath one of the beams that he brought tumbling down with him.

This discovery leads to a shooting, burning pain in his leg, which is obviously broken.

He lets out a strained laugh. "So, is this it, then? Am I to die beneath an unfinished house in the middle of the night after having survived getting stabbed? A sick, sick twist of fate..."

Tears well, unbidden, in his eyes—at the cruelty of the situation, the pain, or both, and he lays his head back, resting it against the ground, and waits to die.

And die he does, and again and again and again—once every half hour or so on and on and on. He opens his eyes, never remembering having closed them, until it all starts again; it would seem that his body—though able to bring him back from death and fix his wounds, cannot do anything against a sixty-kilogram wooden beam that keeps his leg bent at an unnatural angle.

Laughter, manic and raspy, bubbles within his chest; nevermind dying once or twice: the universe, it seems, exacts its punishment in other, more creative ways.

The situation, bleak as it is—for it is very bleak—gives him time for thought, and much of it.

He spends half-hour snippets pondering various issues—morality, Latin, the War, and, of course, the death of the young Mister Davis.

Davis' death is the one that haunts him, and rightfully so. He beat the man to a pulp and then claimed it was the stairs that took the bloke out; the others––perhaps out of malicious glee, no, certainly due to malicious glee—supported his claims. Regardless of whether or not Davis' buggery conviction, no man deserves to die like that.

No man deserves to feel the fury he has for his—his sins.

For he is a twisted, warped creature, a sinful caricature of a human: a sodomite, an invert, a deviant.

A homosexual.

A horrific reality: to long for those of the same sex. A repugnant repulsive, unnatural inclination, a perversion.

He does not blame Davis for giving in—for taking the easy path. His all-consuming hatred of the man was simply a reflection of the hated for himself—his own sickness, his own disease. The fact that Davis obviously saw no wrong—or at least, very little—with his unnatural proclivities had been like the straw that broke the camel's back.

At some point, the monotony is broken by the sound of bombs. He wishes that one would land directly on top of him and obliterate him—deliver him to the pits of whatever Hellish afterlife surely awaits him. As time passes, he suspects that this _is_ Hell—and a well-deserved one at that.

And then—

Light.

Having yet again re-awoken from his previous bout of death, for the first few minutes, things continue as usual—darkness, pain, black spotting of his vision, et cetera—but then, something miraculous occurs.

The ground above him trembles, sending dust and debris and more than a few cobwebs onto him, making him cough, and then—a crack appears.

 _Could it be? Yes! It is!_ The crack widens, a face appearing. With a hoarse voice, he shouts, "Help! Help!"

The person peers into the darkness before scrambling back, calling, "Man down, we've got a man down!"

He passes out a few moments later.

Presumable, they get him out, as he comes to in what appears to be a hospital room, the sharp scent of disinfectant is heavy in the air. The nurse who comes to check on him wears white, the only deviance from the blankness a small black patch that reads, in stylized lettering, "T3" on it.

He floats for a while, drugged up on something—his leg is in some sort of splint, and presumably would be in immense pain. Well, it's nice—not having to deal with the pain. At some point, they begin to wean him off of the medications. The pain is almost unbearable, but his mind is no longer as foggy as is was previously.

Someone comes to see him, then, when he's coherent. It's an odd bloke—American, messy black hair, long black trench coat.

The first thing he says after introducing himself—"Jack Harkness, pleasure to meet you"—is, "You have the same problem as me, don't you?"

"I'm sorry—what?" he shifts, confused.

"The—death thing," Harkness clarifies. "How long?"

"Ah. 19…39," he replies.

Harkness quirks a brow. "Huh. I wonder how that happened…there weren't any rifts, then, I don't think…" he stares off into the distance before seeming to snap back to the present. "What's your name?"

"Er," he pauses for a moment, thinking. However long it's been, it's certainly had an effect. "Actually, I'm afraid I can't say."

Harkness blinks. "Alright, then, you might as well give yourself one."

They lapse into silence for a moment, and memories of his mother singing to him in German float across his mind. "Hermann," he decides.

It startles a laugh out of Harkness. "Do you know what year it is, Hermann?"

"No, afraid not."

"1989."

"What…no," Hermann mutters to himself. "Do you mean to say that I've been trapped beneath a building for—for forty years? What…what is to happen to me?" Tears prick at his eyes—he may not remember his old name, but he remembers what occurred before his entrapment, and…

To have lost fourth years… "What is to happen to me?" he repeats, voice hollow.

Harkness pats his shoulder. "There, there—they'll probably get you caught up on modern history and culture before allowing you to pursue a career of your choosing—Torchwood May be full of dicks, but so long as you're human, they _probably_ won't fuck you over."

The way Harkness says it is lighthearted and joking, but the cryptic statement only unsettles him.

Harkness is right, as it turns out. They— _Torchwood_ , that is—supply him with materials on the last forty years, as well as a new birth certificate for one _Hermann Winchester Gottlieb_ , date of birth, _June 9th, 1989_. The latter makes him let out a bark of laughter, though he supposed it is true, in a sense.

He devours the former, fascinated especially by the advances in mathematical fields, a favored subject during his schooling.

And it is—fascinating. Hermann delves deeper and deeper into mathematics as a way to pass his time—he has to wait until he is legally of age according to his birth certificate, which means he is to remain hidden away for sixteen years—devouring anything he can get his hands on. Nine years in, they allow him access to the outside world via letter. Though still highly restrictive, it allows him to correspond with a number of professors of various mathematical fields.

Thirteen years, and he's allowed access to the interweb. He has to use the bulky computers in the archives, but it is wholly worth it, for he has a veritable library's worth of knowledge at his fingertips. Computer coding attracts his attention almost immediately, one of the few things he can actually do individually, and he is enthralled.

At sixteen, he applies to TU Berlin—paid for by Torchwood, thankfully, as he has but forty-three euros to his name, officially—and quickly advances through his studies.

For some reason, mathematics speak to him, in a way nothing else ever has. It feels like he _understands_ it, within the very fibers of his being, as if he lives and breathes them, his life functions controlled by complex mathematical equations, beautifully simplistic yet unimaginably intricate.

At nineteen, he graduates with degrees in mathematical engineering and physics. Within a year, he secures a position at Cambridge. Torchwood is—well, who knows what happened with them. He pushes it to the back of his mind, along with the other dark memories of Before, at least during the day.

At night, memories of bloodied fists and loathing plague him. He does nothing to dissuade them. They are his penance.

The years have hardly left him unchanged, however. His leg did not heal correctly, necessitating a cane and daily regimen of medications to manage the pain, the only physical mark of forty years spent trapped below an unfinished building.

Before, he was brash and hotheaded and paranoid. Now, Hermann is stiff and cold and wary. The students in turns revile and respect him in a terrified manner. He finds he prefers it to the alternative.

Forty years in silence have made him a creature of solitude.

Then, at twenty-three, the unthinkable happens: Earth is attacked by extraterrestrial life.

Harkness' odd phrasing suddenly makes sense, but Torchwood is nowhere to be found.

The world is in a panic, scrambling to defend itself. Hermann, for one, is fascinated by the rift—or Breach, as they've taken to calling it—and turns to independent studies, attempting to understand it.

Somewhere along the line, he acquires a pen-mate: one Newton Geiszler. The man is enthusiastic in his correspondences and intellectually stimulating. He, too, is fascinated with the Breach, and part of himself he'd thought locked away, annihilated—the part of him that craves human companionship—slowly, slowly blossoms back to life.

They are acquaintances—perhaps, even, _friends_ , though he has no experience with the term. They decide to meet at a conference in London.

It's a horrendous disaster. Newton Geiszler seems to be fully unawares of how insulting he is, and when Hermann fires back a sharp, biting retort, he has the audacity to look—hurt.

It ends with Hermann growling, "Do not ever attempt to contact me again," and storming out.

Yet, despite the abrupt end to their acquaintance, Hermann cannot bring himself to get rid of the letter; it seems wrong to destroy the only evidence of his—acquaintance with someone who understood him on a level no one else ever has.

The war—the _War_ to end all wars, if he's being theatric—drags on for ten more years.

Six of those ten, he is forced to share a work space with none other than Doctor Newton Geiszler.

Geiszler is everything he isn't—outgoing, attractive, reasonably charming. Loud, incorrigible. Fond of ignoring safety procedures.

And yet his presence grows on Hermann, the way moss grows on a rock—slowly and with an aggravating grip.

Then, when he's thirty-five, they Drift with an alien hive mind, and Hermann feels the both of them die. He gasps awake to find his leg healed, Newton unmoving by his side, slumped onto the viscera-covered concrete, and his heart speeds up. "Newton—Newton, get up get up get up you can't be dad, please—" his voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes and with a sob, he shakes the other forcefully, harder, then, finally, slaps him.

Whatever miracle occurs then, he does not question, for Newton gasps, eyes snapping open, and Hermann hails him to his feet and then—

They help save the world.

As soon as the clock stops, Hermann slinks off to his quarters and berries his face into his hands, sobbing.

Newton's death—his almost-permanent death—has brought into glaring light the true nature of Hermann's feelings for him.

His is ashamed. The emotions, the _desire_ for the man, they make him recoil in fear an disgust. If Newton—or anyone else—were to find out—

Hermann would be jailed at best. Newton must never, ever discover his— _desires_. Hermann cannot bear to loose him.

Once he becomes aware of the nature of his thoughts, every interaction is torturous. Casual touch is to be avoided at all costs, an endeavor that is gut-wrenchingly painful. Until now, he hadn't realized how often Newton touches him—a hand on his shoulder, a nudge of his leg as they sit side by side, the warm embrace of a hug.

To rid himself of these indulgences is painful, achingly so, but absolutely necessary. He does not wish for Newton to turn to him, a disgusted expression on his face as he spits out biting words. He does not wish for Newton to face the ostracism that comes from associating with a homosexual.

Somewhere along the way, he's become hopelessly entangled in Newton, and cutting ties feels like dying all over again.

Newton doesn't notice at first. He's blessedly oblivious in that way. As time goes passes, however, even he begins to notice. Hermann wonders how long he will be able to endure the flashes of hurt when he flinches away from Newton's touch, the unknowing pain in his tone when Hermann speaks to him only when absolutely necessary, and even then with a cold, detached professionalism.

Seeing Newton in pain hurts worse than a knife to his heart.

Newton corners him eventually; invites him to his quarters under the pretense of checking over the solidity of his research for a paper.

The door clicks ominously as he closes it behind him, and he suddenly realizes it's locked. "What is the meaning of this, Geiszler?" he hisses, turning on the other.

"Just tell me what I did!" Newton bites back. "Tell me what I did to piss you off—I can't keep doing this! I can't go on like this, with you hating me!"

Hermann lets out a bark of laughter. "What you—what _you_ did? You just—are you so egotistical as to think that my life revolves around you?" he questions, tamping down the pain and hurt that threatens to rise, and Newton recoils, hurt flickering across his face.

"See?" he shouts, "This is what I mean—we used to get along, more or less, and now you hate me, and I don't know why! Why won't you just fucking _tell_ me, Hermann?"

Hermann's panicky, breathing shallow, and laughter bursts from him even as his eyes tear with anger. "You don't _want_ to know," he says darkly.

"Yes I fucking _do_ , Hermann! Tell me!" Newton exclaims, fists clenching.

 _Fuck. Fuck_ _fuck fuck fuck_. His throat tightens, the room closing in on him, too much too much it's all _too much_ , his lungs are burning—

He drags in a shaking breath. Newton isn't going to let him out until Hermann tells him.

With a shaky voice, he says, "Fine. I'll—I'll tell you. On the condition that you unlock the door and never, ever tell anyone. Swear it—swear to me you will not tell another soul."

Newton looks about ready to argue, but snaps his mouth shut. "Fine, I swear whatever it is you're going to tell me will never reach another soul." He makes his water over to the door, and Hermann presses himself against the wall to avoid contact as Newton keys in the code to unlock the door before stepping away and returning to his previous spot.

"Talk," he commands.

"I—I would like to apologize beforehand," Hermann says. "For I—I find myself desiring your company. I _ache_ for you, Newton. I love you—I," his voice cracks. "I am so, so sorry."

He flees for the door, escaping back to his own quarters without looking back, for he cannot bear to look at the disgust and repulsion that are surely written clear as day across Newton's face. He slams the door behind him, locking it, and curls atop his bed, waiting for the authorities to arrest him.

For Newton, for all his kindness and his promise—Hermann does not expect him to be forgiving of this.

H falls into a fitful sleep, awakening at the slightest sound. Fear plays tricks on him, and he dreams ugly dreams of Newton, hateful and disgust.

He wakes and forces himself o stay so. If they come and take him, he'd at least like to have a shred of dignity.

It's only a matter of time before they break down his door and lead him away in cuffs. Hermann wonders how they'll do it—a bullet, an electric chair, or, perhaps, a hanging? He drifts at the edge of wakefulness for some time before he remembers, with a start, the cyanide.

In the back of a cupboard in his kitchenette, hidden behind the nonperishables, is a small tin of cyanide pills. He wonders how many he'd have to take to stay dead permanently—cyanide, being a chemical, would, in theory, stay in his system for longer than, say, a knife—removable—or a broken leg.

Suicide is more dignified than a slow death in prison or an execution.

He stumbles into the kitchenette on shaking legs—he hasn't eaten in longer than he cares to remember—and pushes aside cans, scrabbling against the backing in search of the metal.

Finally, he finds it, opening it with shaking fingers, and plucks out a few capsules. The action brings back memories of Soldier Island, of a dead young man. Funny how things come full circle, isn't it?

Hermann throws the first pill back, swallows it dry. The second joins the first, but the third gets stuck, his gag-reflex kicking it back up, and the casing dissolves on his tongue, acrid and burning. He forces it down anyway.

There's someone at his door, still locked, and things feel—disjointed. He feels far too warm, heart beating at an impossible speed, loud, like a war drum, and the dizziness hits him all of a sudden, sends him toppling to the floor in a daze.

Whoever's outside is banging harder and shouting, but it warps, sound and sight and smell and touch all melding into one another as he spasms.

Darkness encroached on his vision, and he accepts it.

* * *

Hermann doesn't expect to regain consciousness, but he does, anyway. For a second, he lays on his side, staring dazedly at the ceiling of the kitchenette. It seems that he won't be staying dead any time soon, then.

The second thing is also unexpected. Newton's face hovers over his, hair wild, and is that _fear_ in his eyes?

What on Earth is newton doing in his quarters? And more importantly, why does he look so horrified?

"Fuck you," Newton whispers, voice breaking halfway through. "Fuck you—you ingested _cyanide_ Hermann—I—fuck! Fuck!" he exclaims.

"I figured it would be the preferred method; the alternative was a slow death either in jail or by the noose," Hermann croaks out, and Newton shoots him a look that is in equal parts alarmed and confused.

"Herms," he says slowly, "what the _fuck_ are you talking about?"

" _Me_ ," Hermann points out. "I'm a—a _homosexual_ , Newton."

"What are you—?" a look of horror dawns on Newton's face. "All of that—the stuff about the 30s…that all actually happened to you," he breathes. "Fuck. Fuck! Hermann, that doesn't—that doesn't _happen_ anymore." Newton's tone is quiet and broken. "You're not gonna get arrested or—or _hanged_ for being gay."

"I—what?" Hermann questions.

"Since you seemed to have missed it in your reading, Hermann, it hasn't…been like that for decades, Hermann," Newton says, so softly.

Hermann feels fit to cry.

Newton gathers him in an embrace, letting Hermann cry into his shoulder as he rubs his back, muttering soothingly.

"I'm so, so sorry," Newton whispers as they rock slightly, backwards and forwards. "I'm so, so sorry."

Eventually, Hermann calms enough that his shoulders aren't shaking with sobs, but he doesn't pull away from Newton's comforting embrace.

"Do you wanna talk about is?" Newton offers, continuing to rub soothing circles on his back.

Hermann remains silent for a moment, before he says, quietly, "I'm sorry." He isn't sure what he's apologizing for. Perhaps all of it.

"It's…it's not okay what you did," Newton says, voice still shaking slightly. "But I…I understand why you acted the way you did. You were operating on incomplete data, so you drew incorrect conclusions."

It's such an understatement that it sends Hermann into wholly inappropriate, silent peals of laughter, shaking against the biologist like a leaf in the wind. Even Newton realizes the humor, letting out an amused huff.

"I am sorry, though," Hermann says, soberly. "Instead of letting you say your piece, I panicked and ran off."

"I…" Newton pauses. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk about. Like I said, incomplete data, incorrect conclusion, right?"

Hermann nods, a treacherous flicker of hope rising within him.

"Your…desires, as you put it," Newton continues, "they aren't unrequited like you thought. And I…understand that it's hard for you, that this is going to be hard for you, but I wanted you to know that I'd…like to act on those desires. If you'll have me," he finishes, uncharacteristically shy, and Hermann mercilessly crushes down the knee-jerk _feardisgusthorror_ as hard as he can.

He can be _happy,_ if he wants, without fear of punishment. It'll be a long time before he can banish the malicious thoughts, but…he deserves to be happy.

He just helped save the goddamn world. He _deserves to be happy_.

"Of course," Hermann breathes. "It would…it would please me greatly…liebling," he adds, choked.

Newt's breath hitches, and he pulls away slightly, hand tentatively cupping Hermann's cheek. "Can I…?"

"Please," Hermann requests, and then Newt's mouth is on his, soft and gentle, and it's everything, everything, _everything._


	4. 4

**things better left (un)said**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **"17: Things you said that i wish you hadn't"**

 **Or: Hermann finds the tape**

* * *

The party atmosphere is a mixture of adrenaline and shocked disbelief; the world almost ended less than a few hours ago, and Hermann's blood feels like it's on fire with the mixture of tension, stress, and pain from his aggravated leg. Newt's arm is over his shoulder and they're leaning into each other, unbelievably tired.

The Drift bond hums at the back of his mind, a soothing, grounding white noise in the chaos of LOCCENT that echoes through the halls behind them. They reach Newt's quarters first, and Newt nudges his side, wriggling out from his grip to press the pad of his index finger against the scanner, and with a beep, the doors slide open.

Hermann shoots Newt a glance, feeling slightly awkward, and clears his throat. "Well, I'll just––"

He gestures down the hall wordlessly, and Newt raises a brow. "Dude, no way! Come on, we both know you can't get down to your room with the state you're in––nope, don't try to argue, I can feel your pain, man, like, _literally_. Just come in. I can take the sofa––" he waves his hands, seemingly unable to think of more to say.

Hermann debates the options for a moment: number one, try and limp to his own bed, likely collapsing on the way there and dying, or number two, take the biologist up on his offer. When he puts it that way, it's hardly a fair contest. And anyway, the chasm in his mind feels hollow without Newton's presence––he's not sure how well he'll do without the man in his physical vicinity.

He nods jerkily. "Alright. Do you have a––a shirt and a pair of sweatpants I can borrow, by any chance? I do not want to remain in this–– _filthy_ state any longer than necessary."

Newt lets out a huff of laughter. "Yeah, yeah, just come in. You look like you're gonna collapse, dude, here––" he motions for Hermann to put his arm around his shoulders, and they stumble into the room, Newton making a bee-line for his dresser and pulling out a shirt and sweatpants. "Here you go, Herms––I gotta go wash the blood of my face, so," he makes an unintelligible hand-gesture. "I'll give you some privacy."

Hermann eases himself into a sitting position on the bed, toes his shoes off, and, with a wince at the protest of his muscles, begins to work off his mud-splattered, kaiju-beviscerad slacks, pulling on the sweatpants Newt's graciously provided. The shirt is easier to get on, as his arms aren't in nearly as much pain. The soft cotton––actual _cotton_ , not that rubbish excuse for it that they make from plastic fibers, regardless of how much cheaper it is due to rationing––is heavenly against his skin, and he lets out a soft sigh of contentment.

Apparently, Newton's decided that a shower is the only rout, given his state of post-second–Drift filth, as the sound of water hitting tile filters through the wall. With nothing else to do, sleep mysteriously elusive despite the fact that he's running on three hours of sleep in as many days and at least a whole pot of tea, Hermann surveys the area.

It is, all things considered, surprisingly tidy––posters from 2000s and 2010s films tacked up in a neat row, various bands' posters dotted in. The shelf that lines the wall the bed's against has various kaiju action-figures, a few candles, and some cacti. Miscellaneous items, stones, and pieces of sea-glass lay in a random fashion across the board, but somehow, it's endearing, bringing a smile to his lips.

His eyes slide from the shelf down to the night-stand-like table, a few sketches of what appear to be future tattoos, and something black pokes out from beneath them. Hermann brushes the aside to reveal a black tape, unlabeled except for a sticky-note that reads _HERMANN,_ all caps, in Newt's cramped, messy hand.

Interest piqued, he inspects it, fingers running over the edge, until he feels a break in the plastic––a button. Intrigued, he presses it. There's a moment of static, and then, Newton's voice, scratchy and manic at the same time.

" _Hermann, if you're listening to this, it means I'm alive, which means I was right, so, hah, I won––or…_ " the recording goes silent, save for the scrape of fingers against metal and quiet cursing, before Newt's voice returns. " _Or––or! I'm dead, in which case it's all your fault, Hermann, it really is––_ " Hermann clicks the button, letting out a harsh, ragged gasp as it dawns on him when the tape's from.

Images of Newt laying on the floor, spasming and seizing, eyes rolled back in his skull as he makes choked whimpers flood his mind, and all he can think is _pain_ and _fear_ and _alone, you can't leave me alone, please, Newton, Newton, Newt––!_

The tape falls to the floor with a clatter, and he realizes, suddenly, that the room's gone quiet, the sound of the shower gone. Newt stands in the doorway of the bathroom, hair damp, an expression on horror on his face.

"I––" he starts, "Hermann, I––"

"Save it, Geiszler," Hermann hisses. "You've made your thoughts on the matter abundantly clear. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go to _sleep_. Good _night_."

Newton opens his mouth before his head drops, shoulders hunching. Without speaking, he makes his way to the sofa, drawing the blanket he'd left on it over himself. Hermann rolls over towards the wall, refusing to acknowledge him, and tries to go to sleep.

He's only just drifting off when it begins, nightmarish white-blue light creeping across his vision, and suddenly, he's ten again, cowering before Lars, only his father's face is now Otachi's, Leatherback's, Slatterns, the _Precursors are coming and when we do we will bring death and we will bring you horrors beyond imagining and_ ––

He snaps awake with a scream of terror dying at his lips, a worried voice saying, "Herms? Herms, hey, hey, hey, it's alright, it's alright, you're okay––"

As the fear begins to ebb away, the tenseness of his body leaves bit by bit, until he's leaning into Newt's embrace, face hurried in the crook of his shoulder as he draws in grounding breaths. He's still shaking slightly, and Newt rubs soothing circles against his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he says, "for––for what I said. I wasn't––I wasn't thinking. I just––I want you to know that. That I don't want my last words to you to be ones that make it seem like I––like I hate you."

Hermann says nothing, simply clinging to the biologist, but his mind's calmer now. He wonders if he should thank the man, but instead what he ends up saying is, "I don't hate you, either, Newton. Newt."

They remain like that for a bit longer, the room dark around them, before Newt shifts, and, without thinking, Hermann gasps a desperate, "Please don't go!"

Newt stills against him, and Hermann fears he's done something wrong for one horrible, horrible moment, before Newt says, "Oh thank god. I wasn't sure how to ask if I can say without coming off as like––desperate, or clingy, or…" He trails off, and Hermann disentangles himself from the other, pulling back the duvet for Newt to slide under it next to him.

Within moments, Hermann's wrapped in Newt's warm embrace, lulled back to a peaceful sleep by the even rhythm of Newt's heart beating against his ear, the ghost of a chaste kiss against his forehead and his lips.


	5. 5

**ridiculous (darling) man**  
 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **"20: things you said that I wasn't meant to hear"**

 **Or: Newt's crush is out of control, and Newt and Hermann finally get together**

* * *

They cancel the apocalypse. _Together_. Newt and Hermann, canceling the apocalypse, _together_. Okay, so maybe the actual destruction of the Breach was by Pentecost and Chuck (rest in peace), but they deserve at least _some_ of the credit. Plus, like, they did it together. _Together_. Has he mentioned that they _did it together_?

"Yes, you did, Newt," Tendo sighs, exasperated. "Like, fifty times, man. I swear. Are you drunk?"

Newt squints at him, trying to see properly through the cracked glasses, uncertain if the J-Tech's expression is one of annoyance or amusement. Or both. Both is good. "No, but, dude, did you hear what I _said_? Hermann doesn't hate me! He _doesn't_ hate me!" The second part is more of a sigh as he gazes off into the distance.

"Newt, buddy, you can't drift off one me," Tendo waves his hand in front of Newt's face, and Newt snaps to attention, blushing a bright scarlet. Tendo rolls his eyes. "Newt, you're ridiculous."

Newt lets out a dramatic gasp. "Me? Perish the thought!"

"I concur with Mr. Choi," Hermann appears, settling down into the seat next to Newt, and Newt blushes even harder, burying his face in his hands with a groan. "Are you quite alright?" Hermann questions, and Newt bites back a scream.

He has this under control, alright? Like, he's been able to deal with his—embarrassing—crush on his— _way_ too hot—coworker for the last ten years _just fine_ , but now he's suddenly reduced to a pile of mortified ash whenever the man in question is mentioned and/or is in his vicinity.

He has _no_ clue why.

Well, alright, that's not true.

It _may_ have a tiny bit to do with the memories that leaked over during the Drift. Specifically, the memory of their first meeting, from Hermann's point of view. Apparently, Hermann had fancied him for quite a while before they met, even going so far as to think of him as _charming_ and _awe-worthy_ and _way too bloody handsome_. Unfortunately, Hermann seems to have gotten over it rather quickly when Newt opened his mouth—and, like, Newt doesn't really blame him. He was barely twenty and nervous as all fuck, and he came off as _really, really insulting_.

Apparently learning that your crush of ten years had a crush on you for a bit before you ruined any possible romantic feeling he had for you is one of those things that makes Newt turn into a blushing, stuttering teen again.

 _Lovely_.

It only gets worse from there on out. Newt attempts to avoid the physicist without seeming like he's, you know, _avoiding_ him, because Hermann doesn't deserve that. So he's not _avoiding_ Hermann, he just…has places to be when Hermann's around. Other places. Away from Hermann.

Fate, of course, intervenes. He's laying spread-eagle on his bed, having just kicked Tendo out of the room, when there's a knock on the door. "Oh my _god_ Tendo, go _away_ —I'm not gonna tell Hermann I—"

And he stutters to a stop. Because it is most certainly _not_ Tendo who's standing in his doorway, but rather, by sick, sick chance, Hermann himself. Newt stares at the man in uncomprehending horror.

"What, exactly," Hermann says, sharply, "are you not going to tell me, Newton?"

"Nothing!" Newt squeaks, cheeks heating.

Hermann narrows his eyes, striding across the room to glare down at Newt imperiously. "Tell me, Newton."

"No!" Newt huffs, "nope, no way, man. Uh uh."

"You've been avoiding me," Hermann points out, leaning against the door frame, as astute as always. In this case, unfortunately astute.

"I have _not_!" Newt protests, hotly. Hermann stares at him. Newt stares right back.

"You shouldn't lie, Newton," Hermann says, finally. "You're astonishingly bad at it." Newt throws up his hands in defeat.

"Okay, fine," he grumps. "No need to be mean about it."

"Where else would I find the daily joy I get from making your life harder?" Hermann deadpans. "It's all I live for."

"So, just to be clear: you're not going to tease me about this if I tell you, right?" Newt checks.

Hermann's eye-roll is epic. "Newton, unless you're cloning a kaiju or keep lockets of Brendon Urie's hair under your bed, I see no reason I should," he placates. Newt makes a face.

"Mann, I never get that stuff, it's like—creepy, like, what're they gonna do, make a Brendon Urie voodo-doll or something?" He shakes his head. "Anyway. Okay. Okay, alright."

"You're stalling," Hermann points out.

"Well maybe I just want to stare at your handsome face for hours on end!" Newt snaps, before he realizes what he's said and curses himself for having no brain to mouth filter, ready to try and play it off as a joke. But Hermann is—

Well, he's frozen, for lack of a better word. Maybe he said it more genuinely than he'd thought. Oh god, okay, this definitely ranks in the top ten most embarrassing thing he's done. It's like, number two, right after practically shouting, "HI I LIKE KAIJU WHAT ABOUT YOU?" at a blind date due to nerves.

Hermann's face is doing a thing, which, huh, weird. "That's funny," Newt says, trying to break the ice. "Your cheeks are, like, coral, dude, you okay? You got a fever or something?" He reaches over to place his palm on the physicist's forehead, but Hermann grabs it in a deathlike grip.

"What on earth do you mean?" he growls.

Newt lets out a nervous laugh. "Uh, funny story—"

"What do you _mean_?" Hermann demands, nostrils flaring as he breathes.

"Well what do you _think_ it means, genius?" Newt snaps, "I like you, okay? Like, a lot. And I get that you don't like me in the same way, so let's move on and ignore this—"

Hermann's grip on his wrist tightens, and Newt bites back a yelp. "Do not presume to know my inner thoughts, you aggravating idiot," Hermann bites back, and surges forward, capturing Newt's lips.

Newt lets out a surprised _eep_ that dies before it goes anywhere, and reciprocates, free hand coming up to the back of Hermann's head in an attempt to anchor himself.

Hermann kisses hard and ferocious, like he's a hunter and Newt's his unsuspecting prey—hah, that's a weird metaphor—and it's not perfect in any sense of the word—Hermann's glasses are clacking against Newt's, and he's getting a crick in his neck from the odd angle—but Newt really, really, really wants more. A lot more.

They break apart, Hermann's pupils blown, Newt panting slightly, and he says, "Just to clarify, you actually like me, right? Like, this isn't just to let off stress—you'd actually be willing to…be together?"

Hermann stares at him for a moment before his shoulders begin to shake, and he buries his face in his hands. It takes a moment for Newt to realize that the hiccupy noises are actually laughs, and he flushes. "Hey! I had to check!"

"Newton," Hermann croaks, still breathless from laughter, "you ridiculous man. Of course I'd like to be together with you."

Newt grins, thinking, _fortune really_ does _favor the brave._


	6. 6

**Red carnations  
** **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **"Oh, well, still," the man says, "I must apologize** — **you see, I was set out to study the frogs."**

 **The odd statement takes him aback, and he blinks. "I—frogs, you say?" he questions, a confused frown tugging at his lips. The fellow fair lights up.**

 **"Yes, frogs! Marvelous creatures—did you know some have skin so poisonous a single touch can kill a full-grown man?" he enthuses. "Alas, it would appear that this fine island has—none. Not a single frog!"**

* * *

They meet in Bermuda; Lars had bid that he leave, banished to the sweltering tropics until he can bring back to his town—to his sire—something of value. At first, Hermann is delighted—as well he should be, to finally have escaped his father, but soon, it bores him. As Secretary—and simply by his own nature—he is loathe to be parted from the ledger-books, anxiety plaguing him at the thought of a new Secretary destroying his precious work.

This is how Newton finds him, one morning, lain out in a patch of sun hidden in the forest, light dapping through the canopy, creases on his forehead as he attempts to do sums with a below-grade quill and the shoddy excuse for parchment he's managed to scrounge up.

"Good day, good sir," someone says from behind him, and Hermann almost lets out a shriek of surprise, jumping to his feet. "Oh my! I do hope I haven't startled you!" the man cries. Hermann takes a moment to observe him. He's a slim chap, dressed in willowy garments, hair falling in loose brown locks around his face. Beneath the thin cloth, bright pigment bathes his skin. His smile is quick and mischievous, eyes crinkled at the corners.

Hermann regains himself, steadying his weight upon the walking-cane, and says, stiffly, "Oh, no. I simply hadn't expected anyone else to know of this place." In reality, he had specifically sought out the remote location in hopes of deterring inquiries, and the man's appearance is wholly surprising.

"Oh, well, still," the man says, "I must apologize—you see, I was set out to study the frogs."

The odd statement takes him aback, and he blinks. "I—frogs, you say?" he questions, a confused frown tugging at his lips. The fellow fair lights up.

"Yes, frogs! Marvelous creatures—did you know some have skin so poisonous a single touch can kill a full-grown man?" he enthuses. "Alas, it would appear that this fine island has—none. Not a single frog!"

Hermann considers this for a moment. "Surely that cannot be true?" he asks, but the other shakes his head with a mournful sigh.

"Quite so, I'm afraid—a pity, to be sure, for you see, I am a biologist attempting to catalogue every species of frog," he replies. "Ah, well, I suppose I shall simply move on to the next stop."

"A biologist?" Hermann repeats, intrigued.

The other man grins, bouncing on his feet. "Yes—my name is Newton. Newton Geiszler—but please, my friend, call me Newt."

Hermann tentatively shakes the offered had and replies, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Geiszler. I'm Hermann Gottlieb."

A few months later, Lars sends a missive calling for him to return, citing the need for a proper Secretary. Newton huffs when he reads it aloud, freckles shifting as his nose wrinkles. "Regardless," Hermann says, sorrowfully, "I am beholden to return."

"Then take me with you!" Newton begs, "For I cannot bear to be parted from you, left alone, a mad-man amongst fools. Surely Jamestown could benefit from one of my talents, as an apothecary, perhaps? Please, Hermann, I beg of you."

His voice is so distraught, Hermann finds himself bending easily, and Newton's face lights up with joy at the assent he gives. Later, he gifts Hermann a pear and ruby earring in thanks, the match of it hidden behind Newton's curls, a testament to their friendship, and Hermann writes a reply, promising to return before winter, and bring a skilled apothecary with him—Mister Choi, he writes, may be adequate at present, but Jamestown is sorely in need of a trained professional.

* * *

The return to Jamestown is horrific; the ship they have paid to drop them off along its way is sturdy, but it rocks sickeningly in the early autumn winds, making Hermann green in the face. Newton is, of course, immune, swanning across the decks gracefully, and tending to the Secretary. Though clammy and half-fevered, Hermann still flushes in embarrassment at the other's ministrations, and their small, shared quarters hardly do anything to ease his mortification at being dependent upon another.

Finally, the ship approaches the harbour after a week at sea, and Hermann, grasping Newton's arm, clambers above deck, drawing in lungfuls of fresh air. The ship finally docks, and Hermann near races down to dry land, Newton following behind him at a slower, loping pace.

"Lars," he greets tersely, "I would like to introduce you to our new apothecary, Doctor Newton Geiszler. Marvellous fellow. We became aquatinted in Bermuda—"

"Did I ever see such a bright blaze of a capotain hat?" Newton enthuses, plucking the hat in question from its hatbox, where Amara has dropped it on the ground. "And who might wear such a delight?" He flashes a grin at Hermann, and Hermann feels a smile tug at his own lips in reply.

"Oh, it ain't for me, sir," Amara says bashfully, "it's for my mistress, Widow Shao."

"Nicholas," Lars sniffs, disdainful, and Hermann jerks his attention back to the Sheriff. "Why have you brought such a bauble back to Jamestown?"

"He is hardly a bauble, Sheriff," Hermann hisses, "Newton is a trained apothecary—it is in the town's best interests to treat him with respect."

Lars glares imperiously. "I witnessed what happened to you when you accommodated your two young favorites in London—debts and ridicule," he sneers, and Hermann flushes beneath his collar, biting back the urge to growl and bare his teeth.

"This is different," he grits out, instead.

Lars sniffs again. "Regardless, you are in charge of him—any mistake he makes shall be treated as your mistake, understood?" Hermann jerks a sharp nod, hand tightening around the head of his cane.

Later, after Hermann shows Newton around his modest home, they make their way to Mister Choi's apothecary, to allow Newton to get an inventory of their stores.

"This here's tonic for headaches, and that shelf is full of dried herbs," Choi says. "I must confess, Mister Geiszler, I am quite glad to have someone else to take over my position—I've been managing alright with what I have, but, well…" he trails off.

The door creaks open, announcing the arrival of another party, and Hermann turns to see who it is. "Excuse the intrusion," Widow Shao demures, "I dearly wish to welcome our intriguing visitor."

"Newton Geiszler, madam," Newton greets, taking her hand and pressing a chaste kiss to it that makes Hermann's gut twist. "Oh, but I can now see why such a dazzling hat was required," Newton adds, "it must mean, dear madam, that we might exchange compliments and ply the art of vanity." Shao laughs titteringly, pressing her hand against her chest.

Hermann's irritation rises. "Widow Shao, we are conducting a delicate business with Mister Choi," he snaps, and the Widow turns to him, a scowl barely hidden, as if to say something, but someone calls her name from the street, and she leaves, casting a chilly glance at Hermann as she does so.

* * *

Though days pass, and most of the town, including Governor Pentecost, seem to at least tolerate Newton, Lars becomes more and more overt in his aggressions. One night, they are sitting together in the tavern, and Lars rises from his seat upon seeing them, tankard in hand. "We have a law," he bellows, pausing to throw back the rest of the ale, before slamming the tankard on the table. "Passed here in Virginia, in 1610—"

"Lars," Hermann tries, attempting to dissuade him from continuing, to no avail.

Lars simply points a finger at the two of them, and spits, "No man shall commit the horrible and detestable sin of sodomy. He that can be lawfully convicted of such an—an abomination and evident proof made thereof—"

"You know the law as well as I," Hermann interjects, but the older steamrolls on.

"—that they be whipped! They shall beg for public forgiveness before the congregation! Let any actor bestial buggery be—" A sudden burst of laughter from Newton cuts him off, and horror creeps up Hermann's spine as Lars strides towards them "Do you find this matter so amusing, Mister Geiszler, that it brings you to laughter?" he spits. "If you do not hear that sound, sir, I do—'tis the death knell."

"Lars," Hermann hisses, rising to his feet, and grasps the elder Gottlieb by the arm and leads him out. Once outside, the other rips his arm from his grasp, and they circle each other wearily. "Lars, you must leave Newton be—he is a highly-trained apothecary, and with the impending onset of autumn, and then, after that, a harsh winter, it would not do to alienate him."

"Do you not see," Lars retorts, "I do this for you. To save you from dangerous intoxication."

"I have no need of your—your protection," Hermann spits. "I am a guardian of my own fate."

"He will beguile you," Lars warns, "I see it and you will stoop and be lost." He turns, slamming the tavern door as he enters, and Hermann remains in the chilly darkness.

He already has, he thinks, and I do not wish to be redeemed.

* * *

A few days later, when the sky is clear and the weather is pleasant, Newton calls for him to bring his horse and follow him into the woods. "For a fun excursion," he promises, eyes twinkling, and Hermann, powerless to refuse, mounts Bucephalus and follows him into the woods.

They reach a clearing, and Newton dismounts, setting down the large basket he's been carrying on his lap. From it, he pulls a large cloth, spreading it across the ground, and a flask. "I felt that you deserved to relax," he says, "please, sit. Have some wine—I even managed to smuggle out a few pastries."

"Ah, Newton," Hermann sighs, divesting himself of the stifling formal layers. "You are an angel amongst men."

Newton grins, and he eases back sipping at the flask and passing it back to the shorter man. Once it's emptied, he's propped his arm under his head, and Newton is watching him intently. "Ah, Hermann Gottlieb," he sighs, "you look splendid lying there." He chuckles, the sound warming Hermann's skin like the summer sun. "I delight in every part of you."

Hermann's throat is tight as he says—nay, whispers—"And I delight in you, dear Newton."

The gap between them is growing smaller, and, desperately, Hermann breathes, stuttering, "The urge is—is forbidden by law."

Newton's eyes lock with his before sliding lower, flickering to his mouth, and he murmurs, "No one need ever know."

"I will know," Hermann chokes out, yearning still for the touch.

"Hermann," Newton breathes, presses his lips to his, softly. Hermann lets out a faint sigh, fighting against his eyes, which threaten to flicker shut. When Newt parts, drawing back a scant few centimetres, he says, "I have seen how your eyes devour me when you think I'm not aware that you're looking. I know the looks of men when they admire me. When they desire me. But you—you love me. Will you deny it?"

His throat is locked, his muscles paralysed, a war within him, and all he can say, like a broken record, is, "'Tis forbidden—did you not hear the Sheriff say it?"

"The Sheriff is not here," Newton retorts, slim fingers fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. Hermann's gaze is drawn to the action. "Besides, I wanted to surprise you."

"I—I dare not," Hermann croaks, tracing the motion of the other's fingers as the second, then third, then fourth and fifth button come undone, and the shirt slides off one of Newton's shoulders, revealing the bright ink on his skin.

"But we might hold each other in all tenderness and sweetness and shameless intimacy," Newton urges, leaning forward once again, and—

With a crack, Hermann smacks the other across the face, sending him tumbling to the ground, breath shallow. "I am the Secretary of the Company Of Virginian," Hermann hisses, "a respected and wealthy man of position. I will not be destroyed by—by mere emotion." His voice shakes, and he refuses to look at the other. "Can I pity you, your paltry heart?" It's too much, and he buries his face in his hands, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body is wracked with sobs.

"We are not done, Hermann," Newton says quietly, "I love you and you love me. I will show you what is possible between two souls."

Somehow, the fact that the other isn't yelling, isn't trying to leap at him, trying to draw blood, makes things worse.

* * *

Against his better judgment, a few days later, when Newton extends to him an invite for dinner, he accepts. It isn't anything overtly elaborate—they dine at Hermann's dining table—but the candle-holder, three chime candles lit, casts a flickering light that gives it a wholly different atmosphere than usual.

Newton reaches for the decanter, pouring a generous amount of wine into the glass. "You have a great thirst upon you this evening, Newton," Hermann observes, and Newton grins at him lazily, peering at him through half-lidded eyes, and leans over, pressing the lip of the glass to Hermann's mouth.

"If emotion cannot reach the Secretary of the colony of Virginia, a respected man, then perhaps wine can," he murmurs, pressing more insistently. With a minute swallow, Hermann parts his lips, sipping at the drink, and Newton tips the glass a bit to give him a better angle—

The door opens with a bang, and Hermann swallows the wrong way, sputtering and gasping for breath, doubling over.

"Hermann," Lars growls, "might I join you?"

"Of—of course," Hermann finally chokes out, and clears his throat. "Please, Sheriff, I meant to invite you."

"Late Lars," Newton giggles by his side and hiccups, before reaching over to the plate of preserved fruits. "Wet suckets? Come on, now, Hermann, into your mouth." Powerless, Hermann accepts, and Newton lets out a humming noise. "Mmm. Delicious wet suckets," he says, licking his fingers. With much effort, Hermann rips his gaze from the sight.

"The delivery of requested plants is to arrive soon," Lars says, brusquely, "then Master Geiszler can begin his creation of more effective remedies." His eyes flicker over the items at the table. "Kissing comfits?" he sneers, and Hermann feels a hot flush crawl beneath his collar.

"Kissing comfits!" Newton repeats, enthused, and laughs.

"I believe Master Geiszler is suffering from the effects of strong wine," Hermann says stiffly.

"Oh, wine, is it?" Lars sneers, eyes raking up and down his being.

Hermann makes an aborted movement to fix his shirt collar, and says, steely, "'Tis no burden. He is drunk now, but soon, he shall conjure for the benefit of the town remedies for even the most detrimental of ailings."

"Suppose he fails, Hermann?" Lars questions, "what will you say then? What will you do then? Who will you be then?"

* * *

Widow Shao comes upon him later, shaking on the floor of the dining room, sobbing. "Get—get out of my house!" he exclaims, "I was just—I'm sick! I've just been retching! Some food has poisoned me!" He sobs once again, lets out a keening whimper, and collapses against the leg of the chair. With a sniffle and an exhale, he says, "Do you tell yourselves that you might at last ruin me now that you've found me seeking, Widow Shao? Well, go ahead. Tell the governor. I suppose that he would hang me for being weak. If you think you know the business of the colony, you fool yourself. Why do you suppose I was in Bermuda? It was Lars' bidding. So you can—you can go and tell Pentecost," he rubs his nose with the back of his hand, eyes stinging. "You can go tell him that you found the Secretary on his knees with another man. It will make no difference. He already possesses me."

"I did come here to ruin you," she says, "but when I saw a man so distressed, what I felt was pity."

"I prefer you hatred, Widow Shao," he spits, bitterly.

* * *

Later that night, he awakens to Newton at the foot of his bed. "What in God's name are you doing?" he hisses, but newton ignores him, continuing to throw clothes into a saddle-bag. A thought grips him, and he chokes out, "You're—you're leaving, aren't you?"

Finally, Newton turns to face him. "Not without you," he says, fiercely.

"I—," Hermann says, only to be cut of as Newton crosses the room in two strides, framing Hermann's face with his fingers.

"Think of yourself, for once," he urges, "Jamestown can survive without us. We can leave—run off into the West, build a home on the prairie, or in the woods, hunt game and fish. We can be happy, Hermann. Together. Will you come with me?"

Hermann gazes at him for a moment, dumbstruck, before he gasps, "Yes," and pulls Newton forward for a kiss, achingly sweet. With a reluctant moan, they break apart, remembering the precious constraints of time.

"You have the necessary items packed?" Hermann questions, "knives, guns, munitions, flint stones—"

"You needn't worry, dearest Hermann," Newton soothes, "I've remembered it all. Bellerophon and Bucephalus are waiting out behind the house, ready to go—they've been fed and watered, and with winter not coming for two more months, we will reach more hospitable climates far before we need worry about keeping them from starvation."

Newton's words calm the panic in his mind, and he nods, lacing his fingers with the other. "Lead on, then, good Master Geiszler."

* * *

They finally settle on the outer edge of the woods, hundreds of miles—perhaps even thousands—from Jamestown. The members of the area's tribe do not venture this far out, and they leave the natives to themselves, more than happy to live and let live. The house they've built is small but cosy, a smoke-house for drying meat nearby.

At first, the interior is quite barren, the chairs hewn from wood, and not much else, but as time goes on, they master the art of creating thread, and from that thread, cloth.

Newton jokes that it's a good thing, too, as their Jamestown clothing, both too hot and too conspicuous, is starting to wear thin. Hermann cuffs him around the ear and goes back to cutting vegetables for stew.

"I love you," Hermann says, tracing the intricate tattoos on Newton's skin, pressing a kiss to each of the freckles adorning his face. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Who would have supposed the Secretary is a sentimental sort?" Newton says, idly, and draws him down for a slow, open-mouthed kiss.


	7. 7

**pink champagne  
** **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Charlie Kelly/Scientist**  
 **Summary: The gang kidnaps Scientist, but it turns out alright in the end. (Sticking this here because it's part of the Newmann Extended Universe).**

* * *

Their first meeting is in the Philadelphia Public Library; he's there to pick up an Agatha Christie novel that he's had on hold for a while, and runs into—quite literally—a short, scruffy man with earbuds jammed into his ears.

Owen lets out a surprised yelp, and the scruffy man trips backwards onto the floor, the stack of audiobooks in his arms crashing to the ground, and lets out a groan.

"Oh my!" Owen exclaims, "are you quite alright?"

The man groans again, squinting up at him. "Not really, dude—you pushed me over!" His voice is indignant, and Owen flushes.

"Well, maybe if you'd been paying attention to where you were going, this could've been avoided!" he snaps. Regardless, he does feel bad for knocking the man over, and he begins helping him gather all the fallen audiobooks.

The man chats his ear off while checking them out, but does add, at the end, "Thanks, man, for helping me up."

Owen waves it off. "Anyone would've done the same," he says firmly. The other man looks at him disbelievingly. "I'm Owen—Owen Gottlieb," he says, in an attempt to lessen the tension.

"Nice to meet you," the other chirps, "I'm Charlie. Charlie Kelly."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kelly," Owen say, before, "is that a copy of Dinotopia ?" It's the only actual physical copy of a book in the other's arms.

"Yeah!" Charlie practically lights up, beaming at him. "I'm trying to improve my reading—'cause I've got really bad dys— dys—reading problems, so I've just been sticking to the recordings, but this one's just got really cool drawings, right?"

Owen finds himself inexplicably charmed. "Of course—it's admirable, your efforts, and I must say, Gurney's Dinotopia is both fairly easy to understand and quite an interesting read," he adds, and Charlie's grin widens, wide and toothy.

The second time they meet, Owen doesn't knock Charlie over, but it's a close call. They're in the library again, and Charlie almost trips over Owen's outstretched legs. When he locks eyes with the neurologist, a megawatt smile spreads across his face and he plonks down next to Owen. "Owen!" he greets enthusiastically. "You were totally right, dude— Dinotopia was a really good book!"

Owen smiles back at him. "Glad I could help. And…you know Gurney wrote multiple books in the Dinotopia series, right?"

Charlie lets out an excited, if muffled by his hands, shriek of excitement. "No way dude," he breathes, but Owen nods his head.

"I can show you where they are, if you want," he offers, and Charlie looks like he's about to explode from excitement. The remaining hour of his lunch break is spent sitting with the other man and amicably discussing the world of Dinotopia .

After that, library meetups become a semi-regular occurrence; Charlie is truly fascinating, and, despite his self-deprecating tendencies, obviously quite talented. He's––well, there's no other word for it. He's charming.

"I'm...what?" Charlie asks, staring at him like he's just suggested worms live in trees, or that the McPoyles aren't horribly inbred.

"Charming," Owen repeats, "extremely pleasant or delightful—"

"Yeah, I know what it means ," Charlie interrupts, waving his hands. "But, like, you can't—you're joking, right, dude? 'Cause, like, no offense to you, but if you think I'm charming then you have something wrong with your wiring, Doc—I'm a functionally-illiterate thirty-something who works as a janitor in Philly's worst bar and huffs glue to sleep at night." The way he says it sounds like they're things he's heard from other people, and, over time, internalized.

"Charlie," he says, "regardless of whether or not any of that is true, I do think you're charming. You're quite a good conversationalist, and your quirks may annoy others, but I'll have you know that I find them intriguing. Although…" he adds, "I am worried that you mention huffing glue—using inhalants, even occasionally, can be quite damaging."

"Oh," Charlie says, bashfully. "I...I didn't know that, man. Just, like, it's always helped slow down my head, ya'know? Like, get high so I can just get my brain to shut up for a bit."

Owen's heart twists painfully, and he feels the inane urge to gather the shorter man into a hug. Instead, he settles on, "Have you ever been tested for ADHD, Charlie?"

Charlie looks at him blankly. "Eighty-eight sea? What's that?"

"ADHD," Owen corrects, "attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. One of the most common side effect is, as you described, feeling like you're unable to get your brain to slow down or shut off."

"Huh," Charlie says, "uh, nope. Never heard of it." When he catches sight of the worried look on Owen shoots him, though, he hastily adds, "But I'll—I'll get it looked into! And try and find a better way to get to sleep than huffing glue."

"Thank you, Charlie," Owen says, swallowing the lump in his throat. "I just—I don't want you to get hurt from huffing glue."

"I—thanks, man," Charlie says, staring at intently at the floor. "I gotta go—there's probably Charlie Work to do at Paddy's." He hoists the stack of books higher up on his hip and waves. "Uh. Bye."

Owen waves back, not having the heart to remind him that it's Saturday.

A week later, he gets home from the grocer's to find four people sitting on his couch and barely muffles a scream.

"Who are you?" he demands, "what are you doing in my flat—no, how did you get into my flat? I have a deadbolt. "

The short, troll-like one holds up—is that a a glass-cutter? That's a glass cutter! "We came in through the window," he says. "Mac wanted to pick the lock on your door, but he forgot his lock-picking kit."

Owen lets out a slightly hysterical laugh. "Right—right, who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my flat? "

"Oh, that," one of the taller men says. "See, we know what you're doing—you're brainwashing Charlie!"

Owen stares at him. "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"I'm glad you asked, my friend," says the other tall one, an unsettling going in his eye. "Dee, hand me the poster, please, so I can explain our situation to Mr. Science Bitch here."

The blonde lets out a squawk of protest. "What poster, Dennis?"

"The poster I told you to grab!" Dennis snaps. "Dee, did you really—okay, okay." He sucks in a deep breath. "Plan B it is."

"I'm sorry, but when are you going to tell me what on Earth you're talking about?" Owen demands, voice shriller than usual.

The troll-man leaps at him, knocking Owen over and shoving a cloth against his nose. Owen's last thought before he passes out is Oh no, I am so not drunk enough to deal with this.

He comes to ducktaped to a rolling office chair. The troll man notices after a few moments, and grins. "We know what you're doing to Charlie, Science Bitch."

"Will someone please tell me what the hell you're going on about?" Owen pleads. "And my name is Doctor Gottlieb."

"Whatever, Science Bitch," troll-man says, "we know you're brainwashing Charlie."

"I—why do you keep on insisting that?" Owen questions, covertly trying to wriggle out of his bindings with no luck.

"He's been different ," Dennis cuts in. "He's using words like "unavoidable" and "inexplicable" and—and the other day I caught him with a copy of Othello that he said he was reading! " They all burst into laughter like he's just told the world's funniest joke.

"But it all started a few months ago," troll-man says. "Mac, what happened a few months ago?"

The other tall man—Mac—chimes in. "He started talking about you. Ever since six months ago, it's been "Doc this" and "Doc that"," he makes air quotes, imitating Charlie's voice. "I'm sick of it."

"He's been getting ideas, " troll-man spits, "saying no to Charlie Work, skipping movie night, hell, he even stopped huffing glue and started brushing his teeth and showering regularly!" He leans towards Owen menacingly. "Charlie's our foundation—and you know where foundations belong, Science Bitch?"

"At the bottom!" the other three chorus.

Owen rests his head against the headrest, giving up on trying to wriggle his way out of the ducktape. "Look, I have no clue how any of these prove that I'm brainwashing Charlie," he huffs. "And it's not as if those are bad things."

The four exchange a look, and Mac says, "He's not gonna talk, Frank. We're gonna have to go with plan W."

Troll-man—Frank—stares at Mac for a moment before he turns to Owen. "You're right, Mac—it's the only way to get him to talk."

Dee and Dennis move in synchrony, undoing the bindings, and Owen makes to fight back, but his mouth is cottony and he sees stars. Dennis and Dee haul him up, manhandling him onto the desk, each grabbing an arm and a leg.

"What are you maniacs doing?" Owen demands, struggling to no avail.

Mac appears in his periphery, a bottle of water and a cloth in hand. "Mac, you wanna do the honors?" he hears, and it dawns on Owen, all of a sudden, what exactly they're planning to do.

"Uh, no, nope, you cannot waterboard me!" he exclaims, struggling harder. "That's illegal! It violates the Geneva—" He's cut off by banging on the door, and annoyance flashes across Frank's face.

"Deandra," he growls, "I thought you said you made sure there would be no interruptions."

Dee tosses her head in favor of throwing up her hands. "It's probably the delivery guy—hurry up , Mac, we haven't got that long!" she snaps.

"Alright, alright, I'm going ," Mac huffs, and there's the distinct sound of the plastic seal of the water bottle breaking.

Owen panics. "Help! Help!" he shouts, "they're trying to waterboard—!" He's cut off as multiple things happen at once: a wet cloth slaps over his face, restricting his airflow, making him splutter and gasp, desperately trying to draw in air and instead getting water, and the door bangs open with a tremendous crack , and the arms holding him down are ripped away.

The cloth is peeled away, the light momentarily blinding him, and someone's hand is at his neck, propping him up, saying, "Doc? Doc? Owen, c'mon, you gotta breathe with me—come on, in through your nose, out through your mouth, one, two, one, two—"

His gaze focuses, senses finally calming, and he bolts upright, gripping tightly to Charlie's shoulders as his body wracks with shudders.

"Sh, sh, sh, it's alright," Charlie soothes, "you're okay, Owen, it's okay, you can breathe…" his words trail off into a fuzzy white noise, and Owen buries his face in the other's shoulder, tears wetting the fabric of his jacket.

"Hey man, can you stand?" Charlie asks softly, and Owen nods, jerkily. "Okay, let's get you up and to your apartment, alright? That sound good?" he checks, and Owen gives another shaky nod. "Alright. Alright…" Charlie mutters, helping him up onto trembling legs. He keeps an arm wrapped around the neurologist, and snatches a pair of keys from the desk drawer, allowing Owen to brace against him as they make their way out of the bar.

They don't run into the others on the way out, thankfully, and Charlie helps him into the passenger seat of a car. The entirety of the ride, Charlie allows Owen to grip his hand without comment. Owen only lets go to get out of the car and fish out the keys to his flat.

Once they're inside, Charlie bustles around, grabbing the duvet of his bed and a carton of ice cream and a spoon, bundling Owen onto the couch.

Owen scoops out a spoonful and stares at the red-purple swirls of huckleberry listlessly.

"Eat," Charlie urges, "you probably have, like, low blood-sugar now, dude, it'll help, trust me."

Owen mechanically raises the spoon to his mouth, letting the sweetness flood his senses for a moment before swallowing. "They thought I brainwashed you."

"They—they what?" Charlie questions.

"Frank said something about foundations needing to stay at the bottom and accused me of brainwashing you to make you smarter, and next thing I know, I'm getting waterboarded." Owen lets out a shuddering, humourless laugh.

Charlie stills for a moment, an inexplicable look on his face before he says, falsely cheery, "Well, now I don't feel bad about scratching the paint on Dee's car when I backed out."

The statement draws a genuine, if startled, laugh out of Owen, before he says, "Thank you, Charlie." Impulsively, he scoops up a larger chunk of ice cream and offers it to Charlie.

"Are you—are you offering me ice cream?" Charlie asks, and Owen nods. He leans forward, and Owen expects him to take the spoon, but instead he slurps the ice cream loudly. Owen wrinkles his nose, and Charlie laughs, the carefreeness of his expression illuminating his entire face.

"Really, though, thank you," Owen says, "you didn't have to do any of this—drive me home, wrap me in blankets, force me to eat something…"

"Nah, man, that's what friends are for, right?" Charlie says, voice rising an octave, refusing to meet Owen's eyes.

Then it dawns on him. "Charlie, you know this isn't your fault, right?" Charlie mutters something under his breath, and Owen reaches out, tipping his head up to meet his eyes. "Hey, hey, Charlie, this is not your fault. You didn't tell your friends to kidnap me—they decided to do that on their own," he says firmly. "You saved me, Charlie."

There's something in the air, the intensity of Charlie's gaze, the space between them so, so little, and someone's leaning forward—

The buzz of a phone makes him startle, and with a yelp, he tumbles off the sofa, dragging the carton, and Charlie, down with him into a pile. They scramble madly to rescue the ice cream, and to find the phone.

As it turns out, someone's calling Charlie. " What? " he snaps as he answers the call, aggravated. "Oh fuck no," he spits, a moment later, aggressively stabbing the end call button. Owen sends him a questioning look.

"Fucking Dennis ," Charlie hisses, reaching to tug at his hair before dropping his hands. "He just called and demanded that I go back to the bar and kill this rat like—like I didn't fucking walk in on them torturing you! " His voice reaches a hysterical pitch, and Owen gnaws on his lip, uncertain of what to do.

"Sorry," Charlie mutters, looking at the floor. "Sorry, I just—" he draws in a shuddering breath, leaving the words hanging, equally uncertain as to how to continue.

Hesitantly, Owen lifts the blanket, patting the area beside him. "Sit."

Charlie stares at him.

"Come sit down next to me, Charlie," Owen clarifies.

"Are you—are you sure?" Charlie questions, and Owen rolls his eyes.

"Yes, I'm sure. Come sit down," Owen says, exasperated. After a moment of hesitation, Charlie crawls onto the sofa, pulling the extra blanket over his legs for warmth. Owen rests his head on the other's lap, staring at him upside down.

"Ice cream?" he asks, and after another moment of silence, Charlie takes the spoon out of the carton and scoops out a glob of ice cream.

"I'm sorry about...all of this," he says, and Charlie stares at him.

"Dude, if anything, I should be apologizing," Charlie protests. "'Cause unless I walked in on a very kinky, very illegal sexcapade, you were being tortured ."

Owen's face screws up in disgust. "What—no, why would I—?"

"Don't ask, man," Charlie advises. "It took me months to even look at a carrot, and I'm never gonna eat one again." He shudders, staring off into the distance in mute horror.

"You want a drink?" Owen offers, in a blatant attempt to change the topic. "There's bourbon in the fridge, and whiskey and a bottle of 2007 wine, I think, and maybe pink champagne."

Charlie almost drops the spoon. "What the fuck, dude? I own a bar, and we never have anything besides, like, shitty beer!"

Owen shrugs. "Hard as it may be to believe, I do occasionally wine and dine people I have an interest in." Charlie quirks a brow.

"So…you're a cannibal?"

"What—? No, wine and dine. As in to woo. Date. Whatever," Owen scowls. "Just grab the whiskey and a glass. I need something to drink."

Charlie nods, sympathetic, and lifts Owen's head from his lap, setting it back down on the sofa. He misses the warmth almost immediately. "I feel you, man," Charlie says. "But also, I'm gonna try this mysterious pink champagne of yours."

Owen turns his head, hiding his face a sofa cushion to hide his smile. From the kitchen drift the sounds of opening cupboards, the cream of the refrigerator seal, and the click of glass on glass, and then the pad of feet.

"Here," Charlie says, and Owen levers himself up to accept the proffered glass. "I wasn't sure how much you wanted, so I poured you half a cup. Oh, and I put away the ice cream, 'cause it was getting sort of melty."

"Thanks," Owen says, and takes a sip. Charlie's examining the glass of champagne in his hands before he shrugs and throws it back in one gulp, choking as he inhales some. Owen doubles over, laughing until he cries as Charlie hacks, glaring at him.

"S—sorry," Owen gasps, still shaking with mirth. "I can't—I c—can't—"

With a growl, Charlie tackles him, knocking him over. Thankfully, they've both set down their glasses, because otherwise, the couch would be ruined.

They remain that way for a moment, Owen pinned beneath Charlie's smaller frame, before they both burst into laughter and Charlie rolls off of him and onto the floor with an " oof! ". Owen peers over the edge at Charlie, sprawled on the floor, and, without thinking, says, "Do you want to kiss?"

Then what he's just said crashes on him, and he stutters, "I—I mean—"

Charlie interrupts him. " Yes ," he says, emphatically. Then, "I mean, unless you don't want to—I was kinda hoping you would."

Owen gapes at him for a moment before regaining his senses. "Yeah, I—c'mere." He reaches a hand out, pulls Charlie up until they're level, and presses a soft kiss to the other's lips.

It's short and sweet, but when they pull apart, both of them have grins on their faces, finger interlaced.

"So," Charlie says, "can I—wine and dine you?"

Owen grins wider, pulling the other in for a hug, and whispers, "Why, yes, Mister Kelly—I'd be delighted."


	8. 8

_**that time newt dragged a torchwood officer through a cross-dimensional portal**_

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, pre-Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb/Owen Harper**  
 **Summary: Hermann wakes up to find one of Newt's experiments in his bed**

* * *

Hermann wakes to find a man in his bed. Or, rather: he wakes to find a man in his bed who looks just like him but isn't him, clinging to him like an octopus, and thinks, _it must be Tuesday_ , then, and crawls out of bed to go find Newton.

Or, at least, he attempts to.

The stranger who is not him snuffles and clings tighter, tangling their legs together, and Hermann sighs, resigning himself to at least another hour in bed. _Newton, he had better not be radioactive_ , he thinks as the man tucks his face into the crook of Hermann's neck, which is...a bit unsettling, to be honest, given that he's watching his own doppelgänger cuddle him. He tries not to think to deeply on that.

Well, at least he—probably—won't explode when fed caffeine. Maybe Newt will arrive to collect his errant test-subject.

Newt, however, it seems, isn't going to do so. Hermann squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to settle back into a comfortable position, stalwartly ignoring the breath on his skin.

He awakens with a start, uncertain as to what's drawn him out of his sleep. The bed feels...cold. Why does the bed—? Ah.

The man has, at some point, migrated from the bed to the floor, and dragged half the blanket with him. With an irritable huff, Hermann tries to pull it back, at least enough to cover himself, but to no avail. The man lets out a whine and tugs back, dragging the rest of the blanket, and Hermann, down on top of him.

Hermann lets out a muffled curse.

That, at least, seems to register—but not in the way Hermann had hoped, because the man turns to him, blinking slowly, and asks, blithely, "So this is what jumping through the Rift gets me, eh? Sex dreams with myself?"

Hermann gapes. "I—I beg pardon?" he questions.

The man shrugs, as much as he's able, anyway. "I dunno—I guess that the Rift's made me narcissistic. Imagine that—a sex dream, but with me, but with, like, hot me. How do you do that? You—well, me, I guess—look like you should be ugly but instead you're...disturbingly hot."

"No," Hermann says, then, again, more forcefully, "no. I have not had enough caffeine to deal with this yet. Let me up so I can go scream at Newton."

"Issac?" The other questions.

"No," Hermann snaps, righting himself. "Far, far worse. Newton Geiszler, MD, PhD, and my…" what, _bit on the side ? One-night stand? Colleague?_

"—lab partner!" Newt exclaims, appearing through the door. "Ah, Herms, I see you've met our visitor."

"Visitor?" Hermann huffs, then, "I've told you not to refer to me by my first name in front of strangers."

Newt rolls his eyes. " Yes , Hermann, visitor—and no, I won't. He's basically just you...well, he's a bit scruffy, but it adds to the charm."

The as-of-yet-unnamed man's gaze darts between the two of them. "Wait—hang on, this _isn't_ a sex dream, is it?"

" No ," Hermann snaps, "no, it is most certainly not ."

The man shrugs. "Well, I had to ask, since I don't usually meet people as good-looking as the two of you…"

"That's narcissistic," Hermann points out, and the man barks a laugh.

"Well," he shrugs, "it's true, sweetheart."

Newt clears his throat. "Well, regardless, you still haven't told me—us your name, so all I know about you is that you're...from a different dimension or timeline, not sure, but not the one we just closed, so...he's safe, I think. Well, you're safe."

"Owen," the man says, "Doctor Owen Harper. Torchwood, if that means anything over here."

"Uh, nope," Newt says. "Oh, um, that there's Hermann—"

"Doctor Hermann Gottlieb—"

"—and I'm Newt Geiszler. Call me Newt," Newt finishes cheerfully. Then, for reasons unknown, he drags the two of them into an awkward hug. Hermann feels a migraine come on. _This should be fun._


	9. 9

**the time newt found (and kept) the alt-dimension version of his boyfriend**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb, Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb/Owen Harper**  
 **Summary: Owen shrugs. "In my defence, Teaboy, it's actually not my fault this time," he points out, "I'm not the one who opened a trans-dimensional whatchamacallit—"**

 **"— _portal_ ," Newt interrupts, looking slightly pained, clutching tightly to a stained coffee mug that says It must be chemistry. He's wearing neon pink socks, a pair of shorts with the periodic table on them, and not much else.**

* * *

"You did _what?_ " Ianto questions,glaring at him, Jack by his side. The grainy quality of the screen makes it even funnier as the sound ends before his mouth stops moving. Newt's somehow rigged up a FaceTime call between dimensions, and Owen's a bit afraid to ask how.

Owen shrugs. "In my defence, Teaboy, it's actually _not_ my fault this time," he points out, "I'm not the one who opened a trans-dimensional whatchamacallit—"

"— _portal_ ," Newt interrupts, looking slightly pained, clutching tightly to a stained coffee mug that says _It must be chemistry_. He's wearing neon pink socks, a pair of shorts with the periodic table on them, and not much else.

Owen waves his hand, studiously ignoring the sight. "Whatever. The point is, it's not my fault." It really _isn't_ , honestly—he's just sort of lost any sense of fear he may have had. Occupational hazard and all.

" _You're_ the one who poked it," Ianto accuses, batting at Jack's hand as he tries and subsequently fails to steal one of Ianto's biscuits, ignoring the Captain's pout. "So yeah, it sort of _is_ your fault."

With a huff, Owen opens his mouth to protest that it isn't his fault—he wan't awake fully since he hadn't had his first cuppa and _who's fault is that?_ and the light looked just like a string of fairy lights—when Jack cuts him off.

"The important thing here is if you can get back ," he says, trying for stern and landing, instead, squarely on kicked-puppy, somehow. It's kind of amusing. Owen suspects that Jack is generally unaware of how he actually comes off to people.

Newt grimaces and makes a hadwavy gesture, a bit of coffee sloshing over the edges at the motion. "...about that. See, I ran the data—"

"— _I_ ran the data—" Hermann cuts in from where his head's resting in Owen's lap. Owen gives him a consoling look and pets his hair in an attempt to pacify him. Newt continues on.

"—and I don't think it's gonna work. I mean, like, it _could_ , but it also could reopen the Breach, and we just got done fighting a _war_ with the Kaiju, so," he shrugs. "Sorry, but he's stuck with us, at least for the moment." The look on his face is wholly at odds with his faux-apologetic tone.

Ianto makes a noise that sounds like a squeaky-toy being mangled and presses his fingers to his temples, looking like he's being held captive by 23 rd century Dahlists and informed that coffee goes extinct in twenty years. Jack pats his shoulder consolingly and addresses Owen.

"Well, then, I guess it's a good thing that the only thing we'll be dealing for at least a decade is Weevils and the odd bit of alien tech." His eyes lock with Owen's, mischievous. "You look well. Is the sex good?"

Hermann sputters, hacking as he chokes on his own spit, and Newt looks like someone's just told him that his cat lays eggs, while Ianto's obviously fending off an impending headache.

Owen grins. "Very."


	10. 10

**miss you, newt**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: Hermann's away lecturing overseas. Newt misses him.**

* * *

Hermann's away for a lecture at an overseas university; he left two days ago, and he's scheduled to be back in five, but despite it, Newt misses him desperately. The flat feels empty without Hermann bustling around, and Newt keeps waking up in the middle of the night and wandering into the kitchen, expecting to find Hermann there making a late-night snack, expects to be able to wrap his arms around his boyfriend and press a soft kiss to the juncture of his neck, before the cold reality hits him, leaves him cold.

The third day, he gives in and pulls out his laptop, opens his email and hits _Compose._

 _Herms_ , he starts, then backspaces. Too informal. _Hermann_ , he tries, deletes that, too, and types _Hermann, dude_ , instead. Alright. There's the greeting. _You can do this, Geiszler_. Breath in, breathe out.

He stretches his fingers, nervous, and presses the enter key. _How're you doing? It's lonely here without you._ No, that sounds clingy. _I miss you_? No. Ridiculous. They're _dating_. He should be past this anxiousness by now. He deletes the entire thing, starts again.

 _Herms,_ he writes instead, _I can't concentrate without you here. The flat feels empty. But it's fine! How's the lecturing going? I bet the undergrads are stoked to get to listen to you,_ the _Doctor Hermann Gottlieb. Anyway, I miss you._

 _xox your fav axolotl_

It's an inside joke, from the time of their pen-pal days, but Newt treasures it regardless. He hits send, closes the laptop, and makes a cup of tea with a teabag, hears the ghost echo of Hermann's scolding, and smiles.

After his class—only one today, Wednesdays are slow for him—he finishes his grading, shoves his stuff into his bag, and bikes back home. One of the perks of living in a small town—he doesn't have to endure crazy traffic. The flat's dark when he gets back, but he flicks on the lights, tries to push the sadness to the back of his mind.

He makes pasta and a basic spaghetti sauce, eats it while reading a chapter of _Good Omens,_ and turns on his phone. There's a few notifications on the lockscreen, and he scrolls through them, only half paying attention, before one catches his eye.

It's a mail notification. Hope rising, taps it, enters in the passcode, and waits for the app to load.

He almost cries in relief when it reads _From Hermann Gottlieb._ The subject-line is empty, but the email is long.

 _Newt,_

 _I confess, seeing your email was a welcome surprise. The first lecture went well—yes, there were multiple undergrads who asked for my signature on the way out, before you ask, but I said no—and the accommodations have been adequate. I miss you as well, though I doubt you needed me to say it as explicitly; how could I_ not _miss you, darling? I miss laying next to you—the bed is cold without your furnace-like presence._

 _Love,_

 _Hermann_

The email is a mixture of formality and intimacies that is so much _Hermann_ that it brings a smile to his lips. He taps reply.

 _Herms,_

 _Glad to know I'm useful for_ something _. Glad it's going well. The students who take both of our classes have already started asking when you'll be back. It's weird—you're like a cactus, dude, but they like you anyway._ He pauses, a wry smile at his lips, and adds, _If that's not a metaphor for our entire relationship, I don't know what is._

 _Miss you,_

 _Newt_

The next three days pass in a similar fashion; he sends off an email to Hermann in the morning, gets through his classes, gets back to find Hermann's reply. It almost feels like Hermann's back.

Newt's half-asleep in the over-stuffed armchair, blanket pulled over his legs, when the sound of a a key in a lock rouses him. The door creaks open, the soft sounds of feet on the carpet, and Newt's heart thunders in his chest.

Carefully, he rises, grabs the vase off the side table, and creeps towards the door. "Whoever it is, I'm armed and I'm not afraid of defending myself!" he exclaims, and the noise stops.

After a second, the figure, hidden around the corner, says, "Newton, it's me."

"Hermann?" Newt questions, lowering the vase, "Hermann!" He turns the corner, flicks on the light. Hermann stands in the hall, blinking at the sudden brightness, pulling his suitcase in one hand, cane in the other.

With a laugh, he drops the vase, the glass bouncing slightly on the carpet. "Oh my god, dude, I'm so sorry," he says, "I thought you weren't gonna be back until tomorrow?"

Hermann shrugs, opens his arms for a hug. "The last lecture got canceled, so I figured I'd surprise you." Newt clings to the other, breathes in the comforting scent of Hermann's lavender body-wash that always manages to sink into his clothes.

"I missed you," he says, muffled.

"I missed you as well, darling," Hermann replies, softly, presses a kiss into his hair. "Come one—it's getting late. Let's get to bed."

With a smile, Newt grabs the suitcase, careful to avoid the vase, and presses a chaste kiss to Hermann's lips, hands intertwined, and makes his way to the bed.


	11. 11

**things you said to me at 2am**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **Newt's not coping, not really; but then, neither is Hermann.**

* * *

The incessant ringing jerks Hermann from his sleep; at first, he grumbles and tries to shut of his alarm, burrowing deeper under the covers to make up for the lost warmth of Newt's absence, but instead of shutting off like it usually does, the sound just gets louder. Then he realizes it's his phone. Also, it's dark out.

He squints at the display, disoriented by the light, and waits for the screen to come into focus. _Newton_ , it reads. With a sigh, he presses _accept call_. "Newton?" he says, voice groggy, "what are you doing calling me at…two in the morning? Where are you?"

There's a muffled grunt, and some heavy breathing, before Newt's voice sounds through the speaker. "…Herms, hey, I was jus'…jus' thinking 'bout you," he says, voice slightly whimsical.

"Are you alright?" Hermann questions, "do you need me to come get you?"

There's a pause as Newt seems to mull over his words, before he replies. "…no. I just…miss you."

The words startle Hermann. "Really?" he asks softly, "you know I'm here, right?" On the other end, Newt lets out a huff.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I know. It's…dumb. I mean, _you're_ dumb. For…sticking around with a mess like me." His tone is high and fakely cheery, a sharp contrast to the self deprecating words. Hermann draws in a sharp breath.

"Newton, no, you're not—"

Newt barks a sharp laugh. "Don't lie, Herms, you're bad at it. We both know I've got…I've got issues. Hell, we both do. But you…you could do so much better than an adrenaline-junkie with an obsession with the monsters that almost destroyed the Earth—"

"No," Hermann says, sternly. "No, Newt, don't you _dare_."

Newt stops, but Hermann can hear the shift of his clothes as he shifts, the snuffle that mean's he's tearing up or has been crying recently. It makes his heart clench. _Come home, Newton_ , he wants to say. _Please_.

Instead, he says, "You're a brilliant xenobiologist— _you're_ the reason that the Kaiju _didn't_ destroy the Earth. Without you, we'd all be dead." On the other end of the line, Newt's silent. Hermann continues. "And who cares what the world think—they don't have the right to judge you, Newton."

Newt sighs, soft. "It's not…like, I get it, I'm fucked up—I was before, too, but…" he swallows, voice slightly chocked, says, "I can't bear that…that _you_ got fucked over trying to help me. We—we saved the world, Hermann, but it…it doesn't feel like it, when I wake up to you sobbing in your sleep, or when you _can't_ sleep from the nightmares, and I'm…I'm helpless, Hermann, I don't know what to do." He lets out a harsh breath. "It scares me, Herms…it fucking terrifies me to see you like that, and I—I don't know what to do."

They lapse into momentary silence, Hermann uncertain of what to say. It…Hermann's breath feels like fire, burning his lungs, tears pricking at his eyes, and he just wants to block out the world. Instead, he says, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, "Where are you?"

Newt quickly rattles off an address for a bar, and Hermann crawls out of bed, throwing on a hoodies and his parka, pulls on his shoes and gets his car keys. "I'll be there in a minute," he promises, "just—" what, _don't put yourself in harm's way_? _Don't freak out_? He leaves the sentence hanging. Newt seems to understand anyway.

He tries to do some breathing exercises on the drive there. They don't really work. His heart's beating rapidly, fingers shaking. He calms slightly at the sight of Newt standing outside waiting for him, unharmed. Hermann quickly gets him into the car, blasts the heater. Newt dozes off on the way back, but he doesn't loosen his grip on Hermann's hand. Hermann's gripping back just as tightly.

When they get back to the flat, Hermann rouses him. "Newt, darling, I need you to get up," he says, prodding the other to semi-wakefulness. "I can't carry you with my leg—come on, careful, there's ice on the road," he cautions, gripping the other's arm. Newt gives a soft mumble but does as instructed, allowing Hermann to guide him inside and to the bed. Within seconds of laying down, he's out like a light.

Hermann tucks the blanket over him, pulls off his parka and boots. The cold of the winter air makes him shiver lightly, and he's exhausted and worried. The residual drift-bond between them is at the back of his mind, buzzing softly, and all he can get from Newt's end is _cold_ and _fear._ He checks the clock. _3:26_. It's late now—Newt obviously needs his sleep, and, honestly, there's nothing Hermann would rather do than to crawl under the covers with Newt and go back to sleep. They're going to have to talk about this, but right now isn't the time for it.

With a sigh, he lifts the duvet and slides under it, turning towards Newt's space-heater-like presence, and lets sleep pull him under.

* * *

When he wakes, the sun is shinning dully around the edges of the black-out curtains. Newt's already up, and, judging by the sound, preparing a cup of coffee. The previous night's events trickle back to him as he gets dressed.

"Good morning," he greets, accepting the cup of tea Newt offers him. They drink their respective beverages in silence before Hermann says, "Do you remember anything from last night."

Newt freezes for a moment before replying, slowly, "…no."

Hermann sets down his cup, looks Newt in the eye. "You called me at two in the morning, at least slightly inebriated, and…" he hesitates. "Your words…"

Newt cuts him off. "Forget it, I was just saying dumb shit, as per usual. Just me, Newt, being an idiot." He tacks on a hollow laugh at the end, and Hermann reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder before dropping it.

"You said you were…you implied that you felt responsible for my—my _troubles_ ," he says, gently. Newt lets out a huff.

"I am, though—if you hadn't Drifted with me, your head wouldn't be fucked up, you wouldn't—"

"We'd be _dead_ ," Hermann cuts off. " _You'd_ be dead. I couldn't…I couldn't do that, Newton, do you understand? I had almost watched you die on the floor of our laboratory a few hours before—I couldn't just stand aside and let you do it again. I couldn't—" he lets out an involuntary sob. "I—I _couldn't_ , Newton, do you know what it would've done to me, to know that I _could've_ stopped your death but I _didn't_?"

It hangs between them, and Hermann drops his gaze to the floor, scrubs a hand across his face. "It's not—it isn't your fault, Newton," he says, fiercely, " _I chose_ to Drift with you. You bear no responsibility for the consequences of my actions."

After a second, Newt closes the space between them, draws him into an embrace. Hermann grips back tightly, buries his face in the crook of his neck, lets tears wet the fabric of Newt's shirt. "I'm sorry," Newt croaks, "I just—I don't know how—" he stops, starts again. "God, we're really fucked up, aren't we?"

Hermann lets out a wet laugh. "We match like that, I suppose," he says, letting the warmth of the other's body ground him. Newt presses a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"Yeah, we match," he echoes. "But…but we're here for each other, so I guess it's alright."

Hermann closes his eyes. "We've got each other," he repeats.


	12. 12

**to sleep, perchance to dream**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **Newt's mind is going too fast to sleep. Hermann's isn't.**

* * *

Hermann really just wants to sleep; he's just gotten done with the first part of his astrophysics final, and his shift at work was less-than-pleasant, and there's nothing he'd like more than to be able to block out the world for six or seven hours and sleep.

Fate, however, has other plans, because his roommate, one Newton Geiszler, gets back at nine-thirty, ignores Hermann's offer of pasta for dinner, and launches into a long-winded rant on verb conjugation. So far, Hermann's managed to not throttle the man, but his patience is wearing thin.

He's saying something about Charles Dickens and prison reform, and Hermann rolls over with a huff, cursing the fact that it's a one-bedroom apartment, and Newt is on the other side of the room, still clearly audible even when Hermann shoves his head under the pillow.

With a sigh, he gives up the proverbial ghost and sits up, glaring at his roommate, who's propped up against the wall, chattering away, and probably sugar-high. "Newton," he says, then, again, when the other doesn't notice, " _Newton_!"

"Huh?" Newton questions, jerking to peer into the darkness, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"As much as I enjoy your tirades," Hermann says, tiredness creeping into his tone, "it is almost eleven o' clock. For the love of all that is holy, please, be quiet."

For a few minutes, it seems to work, but then, just as he's settling down, Newton says, "You know, the moon must feel kinda bad, 'cause it can only reflect light from the sun."

Hermann groans. "What on _Earth_ are you talking about?"

"It can't create any light of its—it's only bright because it reflects light from the sun," Newton clarifies, then adds, voice sad, "it must feel kinda insignificant. I mean, I would. Do."

Hermann draws in a fortifying breath, and braces for a headache. "Explain."

Newton happily does so. "I mean, like, the sun's really cool and complex, and the moon's just a hunk of rock in its orbit, reflecting its light but never able to create any of its own, like, the moon's cool, but when it comes down to it, it's just a glorified hunk of space rock. Sure, it controls the tides, but without the sun, there'd be no life on Earth." His tone is melancholic, and Hermann suspects that he's not talking about the actual sun and moon anymore.

Softly, he says, "…that's certainly an interesting take, and I'd love to debate it further with you in the morning, but right now, you're keeping me awake, and I need to get to sleep."

"Oh! Sorry," Newt says, shifting in his bed.

Hermann sighs. "It's alright. Your conversations are very interesting, but right now, I think your mind is caught in a state of hyperness whereas mine is attempting to shut down. I believe that it would be engaging for you if you were to…" he pauses, clears his throat, and fights a blush. "Well, perhaps, if you don't mind…could you read me something? Out loud?"

There's a pregnant pause, and Herman's mind concocts a thousand ways that it could go wrong. Then, Newt says, "…yeah. Sure. Any preference?"

The tension drains from Hermann's muscles. "No, whatever's good. I believe that your voice will serve as a white noise and allow me to fall asleep more easily."

"Sure, dude, sounds good," Newton says, and shifts, clicking the lamp on, gets up and walks out of the room. After a minute or so, he returns, book in hand, and makes his way to Hermann's bed. Hermann shifts to the side a bit to allow him room to sit, and Newt cracks the book open and begins. "In The Beginning. It was a nice day. All the days had been nice. There had been rather more than seven of them so far, and rain hadn't been invented yet…"

Hermann drifts off to the sound of Newt's voice, usually high and squeaky, now soft, narrating the rest of the chapter.


	13. 13

**fortune favours the brave**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **It's Valentine's Day and Newt is single. Hermann offers a solution.**

* * *

"It's Valentine's Day and I'm single," Newt says, hopping up to sit on the edge of Hermann's desk. Hermann makes a disgruntled sound of protest, but Newt ignores him, says, again, "It's Valentine's Day and I'm single."

With a long suffering sigh and a searching look towards the heavens—or, in this case, the ceiling of their lab—Hermann asks, bluntly, "And this concerns me…how exactly?"

Newt pouts, grabs one of the pencils— _pencils_ , honestly, Herms, what is it, the 2000s?—and plays with it between his fingers. "Well…I figured you'd probably know how to get a date," he prods, and Hermann scowls.

"I have absolutely no idea how you thought I would be a good person to ask," he says flatly, "given that my own track-record with relationships is…practically nonexistent."

The admission gives Newt a pause. "Oh," he says, lamely. It's…it's surprising, honestly—Hermann may be a bit prickly and a workaholic, but he's engaging and wicked funny and pretty hot, actually.

He fights down the rising blush at the thought. Damn hopeless crush. Newt clears his throat in an attempt to pull himself to the present. "Well, you can't be that bad at it," he insists, "I mean, didn't you date that model? What's her name, Vanessa?"

Hermann squints at him. "Vanessa? What—oh. _Vanessa_." His lips twitch. "Newton, Vanessa is my sister _Karla's_ girlfriend."

"What?" Newt gapes at him, then feels kind of bad. Because, if he's being honest, he spent a few weeks—well, months, whatever—nursing a grudge against her on principal. Jealous—and over what? It's not as if he had a chance with Hermann in the first place. He's still not entirely sure that the mathematician doesn't hate him, and they saved the world together.

Hermann clears his throat. "Newton, did you hear anything I just said?"

"Er, no, sorry," Newt replies. Hermann sighs, plucks the pencil from his grasp.

"I said, we're both obviously out of practice—and what better way to practice than with each other?" Hermann questions. Newt feels faint. It's too good to be true.

"Come again?"

Hermann shakes his head, expression the one he wears when Newt's being particularly aggravating. "Neither of us have gone on a date in a while, what with this whole Kaiju-war business. It would be good if we practice going on a date with each other, and it will resolve your lack of date on Valentine's Day," he points out. For a second, something flickers across his face, before he adds, "As friends, of course."

"Yeah," Newt echoes. "As friends." He tries to hide the hollowness in his voice. _You idiot, of course he means as friends._

Despite Hermann's assurances that they're not going anywhere terribly fancy, Newt spends an hour locked in his bathroom, trying to force his hair to lay flat and freaking out. _Just as friends_ , he repeats to himself.

(Even if he wants more.)

His doorbell rings at half-past seven, sharp, just when Hermann said he'd pick Newt up. Newt's nerves are instantly a thousand times worse. He tries to pat down his hair, checks in the mirror to make sure that he looks alright, and tries to push the ominous pit in his stomach away, and opens the door.

Hermann's standing outside the door, maybe half a foot away, clad in a sharp-cut blazer and a crisp black shirt.

"I feel underdressed," Newt jokes weakly, trying not to devour the sight of his lab partner in properly-fitted clothing. If he looks good in the ill-fitting sweater-vests, the effect is a thousandfold when the fabric is tailored properly.

Hermann shakes his head. "I don't know what you mean. You look—quite nice, yourself." He offers his arm. "Shall we?"

Feeling like a flustered teen, Newt grips the proffered arm, and focuses on not tripping over his own feet. "S—so," he squeaks, "you gonna tell where we're going?"

Hermann shoots him an enigmatic look. "Patience, Newton." Newt sighs.

The place, as it turns out, is an upscale café. The waiter leads them to a table for two, hidden at the back. Newt tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. Just friends, he scolds, relax. Still, his leg begins to jitter.

Hermann shoots him a sympathetic smile and places a hand over his. Newt draws in a breath, tries not to faint. Hermann, attention already focused on his own menu, doesn't notice.

Newt tries to keep his voice level when he asks, "So, what would you recommend?" Hermann lowers his menu, lets out a hum.

"Well, the Swiss and mushroom sandwich is delectable, and their cinnamon rolls are tooth-achingly sweet and topped with cream-cheese frosting, just as you prefer," he replies.

Newt's heart feels like it's going to beat out of his chest at the knowledge that Hermann remembers that he prefers cream-cheese frosting on his cinnamon rolls. Ridiculous. And yet, here he is, sitting in a café with Hermann Gottlieb for the second time since their disastrous meeting in '17 and they're not yelling at each other, so anything's possible.

"Y—yeah," Newt stutters, realising he's been silent for too long. "Yeah, yeah, I—I think I will order that, actually."

They eat in relative silence—that is to say, speaking in pleasant tones without breaking into an argument—and Newt feels twitchier and twitchier as time passes, nerves growing more and more frayed as anxiety claws at the back of his mind.

By the end, he's only replying in short sentences, and Hermann senses something's not right with him. They leave early, Newt practically hightailing it back to his quarters once they get back to the Shatterdome.

He spends half an hour on breathing exercises, tries not to have an anxiety-induced panic-attack. In that, he's only partially successful, but, well, it's better than breaking down in public and embarrassing Hermann.

With a calmer, if still-slightly shaky, breath, he crawls off of the chair and strips out of his clothes, throws on a pair of comfortable sweats and a loose graphic tee, and lays on his bed, happy to drift between wakefulness and sleep.

At some point, he actually does fall asleep, because he opens his eyes to a darkened room, someone knocking on the door. He adjusts his glasses, calls, "I'm coming, I'm coming, hang on!"

He opens the door expecting to see Mako or Tendo, but instead, it's Hermann. There's a worried look on his face, and he gives Newt a quick once-over. "Are you…are you alright?" he asks. "Did I…did I offend you?"

Newt stares. "What."

"I simply…" Hermann glances at him before fixing the floor with an intense gaze. "You looked upset when we got back. I simply wished to enquire as to whether or not you were alright."

"Oh," Newt says. "Yeah, I'm…fine."

Hermann fixes him with a disbelieving look. Newt sighs. "We're doing this now, then, I guess," he says, miserably. "I just…no, Hermann, you didn't offend me. Actually, it was…it was fantastic."

"Then what's wrong?" Hermann asks, obviously puzzled.

"I didn't want it to be fake," Newt says, bluntly. "And yeah, it's my fault for not just—saying no when you proposed the idea, but…" he trails off.

"Hang on," Hermann says, "what on Earth are you talking about."

Newt sighs again. "You're obviously not interested in me, Hermann. I get it, I do—really, trust me, if you think I annoy other people, you should see how much I annoy myself."

"No interested?" Hermann repeats.

"Well, I'd assume that's what it means when someone rejects you multiple times," Newt says drily. "It's not as if I was subtle asking you out. Like, at least a few times a year. Once I even got you roses."

Hermann gapes at him. "I—I thought you were mocking me," he says, dumbfounded. Newt tilts his head.

"No, why would I—?"

He's cut off as Hermann hooks two fingers under his collar and drags him forward, mashing their mouths together. It's utterly inelegant, their glasses and teeth clacking, but when they break apart, Newt's grinning.

"So…can I take that to mean you're interested?" he teases. Hermann glares at him, hand resting on his chest, where it slipped to when they were kissing.

"Only if you agree to go on an actual date with me," he shoots back. Newt grins wider.

"Deal."


	14. 14

**i just met you and this is crazy (but maybe come on vacation with me?)**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **Hermann's won a contest for a week-long couples vacation at a beach-house in California; there's only one problem: he's just broken up.**

 **Enter Newton Geiszler.**

* * *

The tickets sit on Hermann's dresser, beneath a pamphlet and a mug. He tosses a glance at them, feels the tears swell in his eyes. His fingers tremble slightly as he reaches out, before snatching his hand back. No. He musn't dwell on the events of the past few days.

Instead, he pulls out his phone, taps in the passcode, and scrolls through his contacts. There, halfway through; _Newton Geiszler_. He hesitates slightly—they're only ever texted and emailed, never called. But—well, he's honestly curious what Newton sounds like; the footage of the lectures Hermann can find online are of a low quality, and he doubts they do justice to the real thing.

He taps _call_. The phone rings, once, twice, three times, then a fourth, and just before he's about to give up, there's a click. "Newt Geiszler speaking," crackles through the speaker, punctuated by a yawn.

"Newton!" Hermann says, hoping he doesn't sound over-excited. "It's me, Hermann. I was wondering if you wanted to go on an all-expenses-paid week-long vacation in a rental on the California beach?"

There's a moment of silence, and Hermann begins to berate himself. _Idiot, of course he doesn't—_ "…that sounds fantastic," Newton says. "When?"

"Er," Hermann checks the brochure. "Two weeks from now."

" _Awesome_ ," Newt enthuses, "text me the details."

Even after he hangs up, the smile still lingers on Hermann's lips. He falls asleep with the thought that he's going to finally, _finally_ meet Newton Geiszler in person.

He texts Newt the details along with a photo of the brochure; Newt texts him a smiley emoji. Hermann tries to tamp down the butterflies that threaten to crawl up his throat. It's uncomfortable, and Hermann hates it.

* * *

His first impression of Newt is _manic_. They've agreed to meet at the Boston Logan Airport—Hermann's changing flights there, and Newt will be joining him, and from there they're continuing to the beach house in Santa Monica.

He's sitting in one of the in-airport cafés, eating a scone, waiting for the other to arrive, when someone slides into the seat opposite him, chirps, "Hey! Hermann?"

Hermann raises his head, takes in the jittery, tattoo-covered form of the man before him. He's nothing like Hermann imagined, and yet, it fits perfectly. "Yes—Newton, I presume?" he asks, mostly on principal, and Newt beams at him.

"This is gonna be _awesome_!" he enthuses. "Thanks for inviting me, Hermann, really—the dean of sciences' been bugging me about how I never use any of my sick leave or vacation time."

Hermann feels an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. "Yes, well, I suspect it will be good for both of us—to unwind a bit, that is," he replies. "After all, what could possibly go wrong?"

Apparently, a lot. The flight is delayed for two hours, and when they finally board, it turns out that they're sitting a row across from a couple in a heated argument. Exhaustion tugs at Hermann, making him even more irritable and snappish, and, to top it all off, he's forgotten his earplugs.

"We should watch a movie or something," Newt suggests, "that always helps me fall asleep on flights."

Hermann sighs. "I suppose I don't really have anything to lose, do I?"

They wind up watching some ridiculously sappy Hallmark movie Newt's got downloaded on his iPad, sharing a pair of earbuds, the screen balanced on the divider between them. In the dim light of the cabin, face half-hidden in shadow, Newt's face is open and expressive, and he looks, for once, his age. The stress of working for the PPDC while also juggling his teaching position melts away; it's a good look on him, Hermann muses.

Eventually, his eyes begin to drift shut, and he slumps slightly, leaning against the other in a half-asleep haze. Newt shifts, allowing Hermann to rest his head against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin against Hermann's pulling him further down into the deep well of sleep.

Before he drifts off, something brushes against his forehead softly, and someone murmurs something comforting when he shifts into a more comfortable position, a warmth against his hand, and he surrenders to the darkness, mind going peacefully silent.


	15. 15

**bloody portobello and lemon meringue**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **Newton Geiszler always comes to the Shatterdome with a date. Today, though, he's alone. Hermann investigates.**

* * *

As long as Hermann's been a waiter at the Shatterdome—three years, two months, and thirteen days, not that he's counting—he's observed the regulars. Old Woman Josie always comes in on the third Thursday of the month, after her monthly bowling games, the Man in the Tan Jacket Hermann can never remember the face of comes in only on full moons, and Newton Geiszler, professor at the University of What It Is, and part-time radio host, always brings his dates to the Shatterdome.

It's just how things are—like the omnipresent Sheriff's Secret Police members, the lights above Arby's, or the existence of the angels, who do _not_ exist, and only tell lies. It's a predictable thing—and rarely is anything in this life predictable.

So, when Newt turns up on Saturday by himself and orders a portabello mushroom, raw and bloody, voice listless, Hermann is, naturally, surprised. Not many thing surprise him, or have surprised him, or probably will surprise him, but this does.

The blankness of Newt's eyes surprises him, and so, he declines Chuck's gracious offer to have one of the buzzing shadow people oversee Newt, and takes the task on himself. "Your portobello mushroom," he announces, placing it in front of the scientist, and slides into the seat opposite him. Newt says nothing, picking at the dish, which lets out a blood-curdling wail and tries, in vain, to escape the bowl.

"Are you alright?" Hermann questions. Newt stares at him for a moment, seemingly surprised.

"Are you—are you talking to _me?_ " he asks, fork stilling, and Hermann nods. "Why?"

"Well, it's company policy that our guests are to have the best experience possible," Hermann replies. "Also, you're here alone."

Newt tips his head quizzically. "…yeah," he says, slowly, "what's that got to do with anything?"

"Well," Hermann says, and clears his throat, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "You only ever come here if you have a date—I was simply wondering if you were alright."

Newt stares at him again, and Hermann tries to not fidget in his commandeered chair. Finally, he says, "That's…kind of you." Hermann fixes his gaze on the table-cloth and fiddles with the head of his cane. The mushroom lets out a chocked gasp and slides down into the blood sauce with a gurgle.

"Er," Hermann says, uncertain of what to say.

Newt sighs. "You're right, I…I'm not doing to great, honestly—I did have a date, actually. Or, at least, I thought I did. It turns out it was just a dare to see how long he could string me along for." He shrugs. "And, really, I should've expected it—no one's usually that into me unless they have an ulterior motive."

The tattoos of monsters on his arms, usually vibrant and animated, are monochrome and hiding beneath his shirt. Hermann considers it for a moment. "Well," he says, "your date may have—wrongly—decided you're worth less than him, but how about I make it up to you with a slice of lemon-meringue pie. On the house," he offers. "Help cheer you up, right?"

Newt gapes at him. "You—you'd really do that for me?" he asks, and Hermann nods.

"I'll be right back," he promises, and makes his way back to the kitchens. Mako catches his eye as he cuts a slice of pie and tops it with a perfect dollop of cream, and winks. Hermann's cheeks pale as blood rushes to his cheeks, tinting the already pale skin silver.

"Here you are," he says, setting the plate in front of Newt, attempting to not act like a flustered idiot. Newt smiles, perfectly, and Hermann pales even further.

Newt cuts off a piece and spears it with the fork, holding it out to Hermann. "Here," he says, "have a piece—it's the least I can do to repay you."

"Oh that's—that's really n—not necessary," Hermann stammers, but Newt pushes the fork at him, insistent, and Hermann gives in, eating the proffered piece.

Newt grins at him, takes a bite himself, and says, "So, any chance we could do this again?"

"Like a—a date?" Hermann squeaks.

Newt's lips twitch. "Yeah, like a date."

Hermann tries not to faint on the spot. "That sounds—that sounds great," he stutters, and turns a a faint shade of silver when Newt reaches out to twine their hands together under the table.


	16. 16

**violets and baby's-breath (and other romantic things)**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "What exactly am I looking for, Geiszler?" he drawls, "your work ethic, perhaps?"**

 **Newt sighs. "Hilarious, Gottlieb. No, look at my desk and tell me whether or not there's a bouquet of violets and baby's-breaths wrapped in a white ribbon."**

* * *

"Doctor Geiszler!" The call startles Newt from her thoughts; she's sitting in front of her desk, papers in front of her, the light of the lamp casting the room into a sallow, yellow glow. "Geiszler!" The call comes again, and she raises her head, groaning.

"What?" she snaps.

The door creaks open. It's Doctor Gottlieb. He leans heavily on his cane, face unreadable. She sends him a shallow, sharp smile, and waits for him to enter. After a few seconds, he starts and scuttles in, clears his throat. "Ah, Doctor Geiszler, I was wondering if..." he glances around nervously, closes the door. Newt's curiosity grows. "My good fellow," he continues, "I was wondering if you would perhaps be amenable to a dinner?"

He fiddled with the elegant head of his cane, looks unsuitably uncomfortable—nervous?—, and Newt takes a second to think it over. In any other case, she'd assume that he's trying to court her, but, for all he knows, Newt is a man as well, and, well, that simply isn't done. A dinner between colleagues, then.

Realising that he's expecting an answer, she drags a hand through her short hair and replies, "Alright—well, I suppose that I could go out for a bite." She shoots him a grin. He nods shortly, holds out an arm.

"Er," she says, and he drops the arm to his side, floundering.

"Yes, yes, let us—let us go," he rushes out.

Things only get odder from there. A week later, Newt unlocks her office and finds an understated bouquet of violets on her desk. She stares at them, steps outside. "Gottlieb!" she calls, and the physicist's head pokes out from his own office down the hall.

"What is it now, Geiszler?" he sighs, adjusting his glasses.

"Come here, please," Newt requests. With a put-upon sight, Gottlieb stumps over. "Look in my office and tell me what you see," Newt commands. Gottlieb raises a brow at her.

"What exactly am I looking for, Geiszler?" he drawls, "your work ethic, perhaps?"

Newt sighs. "Hilarious, Gottlieb. No, look at my desk and tell me whether or not there's a bouquet of violets and baby's-breaths wrapped in a white ribbon."

Gottlieb peeks in over her shoulder. For a second, something passes over his face, before he says, "A secret admirer, I see—well, then, good chap, who's the lucky lady?" Newt sighs, pinched the bridge of her nose. The cloth binding her chest flat tightens, and she hides a wince.

"No, Gottlieb," she says, aggravation seeping into her tone. "I do not have a an admirer, secret or otherwise; I was simply making sure I wasn't hallucinating." Her medications have a tendency to do that—or, rather, the absence of them does that. Gott im Himmel, it's the nineteenth century, they should have some goddamn decent meds.

But. But!

Irregardless. Or. No. "Regardless?" she mutters, and Gottlieb stares at her, shakes his head. "Thanks for the dinner!" Newt calls after him, and nearly kills herself laughing when Gottlieb trips on the carpeting and nearly falls before catching himself at the last moment.

So, dinner. Dinner's a...thing. She thinks? Possibly. Or. Possibly not? It's confusing, since Gottlieb's sending very, very mixed signals.

Well, that is, until she's slamming Newt up against the wall of her office, eyes dark with intent. Which, at this point, Newt doesn't think the signals could be interpreted as anything other than lust, so. So.

Wait. Rewind.

So. So. It starts with dinner. Or, rather, a late-night snack at a seedy hole-in-the wall a few blocks from the University. Newt orders spicy curry and coconut ice-cream and eats with her fingers to spite Gottlieb.

Gottlieb eyes her with something akin to morbid curiosity as he cuts his own meal into small pieces and spears them aggressively. "That's disgusting, Geiszler," he announces, "were you taught no manners?"

"Nope!" Newt says, cheerily, chewing loudly, and watches with unhindered glee as Gottlieb winces and glances away. His face screams discomfort and he looks out of place in the haze of smoke drifting in the air, dressed sharply amongst the other patrons who, besides being significantly more tipsy and/or stoned, are wearing significantly less.

Not that Newt blames them, honestly. It's hot as hell in here.

Gottlieb clears his throat. "We should...we should head back," he says, fingers tapping the head of his cane. "Paperwork, you have—paperwork you need to get. For—classes. I have paperwork," he babbles.

Huh. Newt tips her head to the side, squints at him. There's a distinct flush of pink on the physicist's cheeks—heat, perhaps? Or...something else? Interesting. She files it away for analysis. "Yes," she says out loud instead, "yes, we should."

So that's how they get back to the University. Gottlieb waits for her to collect her papers, and then says, "I've got a 1789 whiskey if you'd like a drink." Newt stares.

"Are you...are you offering me some of your twenty year old alcohol?" she questions, disbelieving. Because Gottlieb is—infamous for his fierce guarding of his drinks. Newt's...surprised, to say the least.

"Sure," she says, instead. "Yeah, I could do with a drink."

And thus, they drink. Some, or. More than some? A lot. Multiple bottles, even. She stares at the ceiling, watches as it spins. By her side, Gottlieb shifts, his ridiculous overcoat tickling her neck.

"Hnn," he groans. "My head's g'n'be poundin' t'morrow." Newt grunts in agreement. "I spent...s'much on y'," Gottlieb slurs, and that. That snaps Newt...back. Or. Up. Awake? More lucid.

"What," she says flatly.

"Mhm," Gottlieb murmurs, "'s not cheap t'buy violets 'n December."

Oh. Oh. "Gottlieb," she says, haltingly, peering at the other, "have you...have you been courting me?"

Gottlieb lets out a huff, then, "Wait, you...you didn't know?" There's surprise in his voice, and he rolls over. "Oh. Oh, hell," he groans. "Then I assume you aren't aware of...of my secret, either?"

Newt blinks, head fuzzy. "Er...no?"

"Ah," Gottlieb says. "Well. Then." He clambers to his feet, closes and locks the office door. Newt's much more lucid, now, and lets out a squeak of surprise when Gottlieb begins to strip off his clothing.

"Gottlieb, what are you—!" Gottlieb pulls off his shirt, and. "What," Newt says flatly, not processing the data her eyes are receiving. Because there, on Gottlieb's chest, are strips of tightly-bound cloth. Just like Newt's.

"What," Newt says, again, like a broken record.

Gottlieb glances at her before turning away sharply. "I—I simply assumed," she says, pauses. "I...I assumed that, since I am aware of...you, you must have also been aware of me."

"Er," Newt says. "Um. No."

"Ah," Gottlieb says, voice dull. "Well, in that case, I apologise for..." she gestures broadly. "This."

"Oh!" Newt exclaims, pulls herself to her feet. "Oh, no! Uh, no, I'm not—" she flails for a second, regains her balance, "no, no, I, uh. I'm. Interested. Too. If you are, that is," she tacks on, flushing.

Gottlieb finally meets her gaze, and there's...something there. "...I'm interested," she says, cautiously.

Newt clears her throat. "Yeah. No, no, I'm. Very interested," she stumbles on the vowels. Quicker than should be possible, Gottlieb crosses the office, stops a scant centimetre away from Newt. Newt's frozen in place, breath shallow, and she swallows, watches as Gottlieb tracks the motion.

Her eyes flick to Gottlieb's lips, and then Gottlieb's backing her against the wall, hand at the base of her neck, her mouth hovering over Newt's own, pupils blown wide. Newt's breath hitches, and she rasps, "...so, y—you and me and a darkened room—"

Gottlieb slams her lips against Newt's, grips her hair. Newt whimpers, legs weak from a mixture of alcohol and the uniquely intoxicating powers of Gottlieb's kiss. She breaks away and Newt tries to chase after her, only to be stopped as Gottlieb drops her cane and presses her hand against Newt's sternum to stop her.

"You should...you should have someone shut you up more often," she advises. Her voice isn't even breathless, which is. Unfair. Since Newt's pressed against a wall and partially dazed. She voices the thought, and Gottlieb's lips twitch into a smug grin.

"You," Newt hisses, "you absolute fucker. You bastard. You smug clotpole. You—" Gottlieb cuts her off again, not that Newt's complaining. At all.

(She doesn't complain when Newt calls her _Hermann_ and _darling_ , either, so. So, win-win.)


	17. 17

**lucky shirt**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "It all starts when Newt accidentally wears one of Hermann's shirts."**

* * *

The morning starts out alright. _Starts_ being the keyword; it starts, like most of Newt's days do, with too many cups of coffee and a danish from his favourite bakery. He balances the cups and the bag with the pastry on top of his pile of books, barely able to see where he's going.

Which, of course, is when he runs into someone. He trips on his shoe-laces, stumbles, hits a person—the _oof!_ of surprise is definitely human—and goes careening to the ground, dumping the drink on himself.

That someone, as it turns out, is Hermann _fucking_ Gottlieb, because of course it is. "Oh, God, I am so sorry—" Newt stammers, scrambling to his feet, "I am so, so sorry, I didn't even—" Hermann waves it off, helps him up, but still, Newt feels horrible. "Here, lemme—" he checks the bag. "You like peach danishes, right? Here, take it, I insist. And again, I am so, so sorry, alright man? Like, super fucking sorry," he babbles, shoving the bag at a confused Hermann.

"Er, yes, I do, thank you, Newton", he says, taking the bag carefully, and pats Newt's shoulder. "I, ah, have to get to class but—thank you."

He leaves Newt standing, slack-jawed and practically a molten puddle, on the lawn, and hares off towards the physics building. Running slightly on auto-pilot—Hermann _touched him_ , he can't believe it actually happened, because they may be sort-of-kind-of friends but surely not close enough that he's managed to gain Hermann's rare physical contact, right?—he makes his way to his office and sets his stuff down and digs around for a spare shirt.

The one he pulls out…does not look like it belongs to him. It's too—well, it's too _nice_. It's a black button-up, and it looks suspiciously like one of Hermann's, but that…that can't be right. He shrugs, decides that it doesn't matter, and pulls it on.

Except, three classes later, he catches a gaggle of students outside his office, crowded around a phone and giggling, and hears his name, and Hermann's, and thinks, _oh hell, what now?_

Casually—or, as casually as he can manage, which is not very—he makes his way over to them, and says, "So, what's this I hear about Doctor Gottlieb and I?"

The student with the phone tries to hide it, a guilty look on her face, but the boy by her side pipes up, " _Doctor_ Gottlieb? Wow, you slept with him and you can't even call him by his name? That's _pathetic_."

"Chuck!" the girl hisses, "you—"

" _What?_ " Newt says loudly, flushing furiously. "I—what—you—"

The kid, Chuck, sneers. "You're pathetic, man," he spits, before the girl by his side drags him off, apologising the entire time, but Newt's rooted to the spot, mortification dousing him like a bucket of ice-water.

It only gets worse from there; the next day, more incidents like the one with Chuck occur, leaving Newt more and more mortified and embarrassed. He can only imagine what it's like for Hermann—shit, _Hermann_. What's he going to do to him? Newt imagines various scenarios, each worse than the last mall of which include Hermann, red-faced and spitting with rage, yelling at him to fuck off and never, ever talk to him again.

Two days later and he hasn't seen hide nor hair of the physicist, and his anxiety's growing. They usually run into each other at least once a day, and Newt hasn't seen him since the start of the week. The rumours, on the other hand, are only growing more present.

They range in detail, but most of them fall into one of two categories: one, Newt and Hermann slept together as a one-night-stand and Newt is pining over him, but Hermann isn't interested, and two, Newt, pining pathetically, made up a rumour that they slept together. Both are wrong, and awful, and horrifyingly embarrassing.

And to make matters worse, they are true—partially. Because Newt has a teeny tiny, itty bitty crush on a certain foul-tempered German mathematician. Fate, apparently, hates him.

A knock on his office door rouses him from his thoughts, and he groans. "If you're here to pester me about Doctor Gottlieb, go away," he says, miserably. There's a moment of silence before the person knocks again, and Newt drags himself to his feet to answer it. He yanks the door open and starts, "No, I did not sleep with—"

It's Hermann at the door. Hermann, who grabs him by his tie and drags him in for a scorching kiss, Newt's words dying against his lips as he flails for purchase.

Newt lets out a whine and melts as Hermann deepens the kiss, the shocked gasps and exclaimations of surprise from the students in the hall barely registering. With a hand at his waist, Hermann practically shoves him into the office, kicking the door shut behind him.

When Hermann finally draws back, Newt croaks, "Not to imply that I'm not enjoying this, but what're you doing here? And—and why did you just make out with me in front of students?"

Hermann lets out a light cough, a blush on his cheeks. "I may have—er, heard about the…rumours. And felt that it was unfair to you that the students assumed that you were simply my…" he pauses. "Bit on the side."

"So…you decided the best way to disprove the assumption was by making out with me in my doorway?" Newt questions, and Hermann ducks his head sheepishly.

"I simply thought that…well, I _hoped_ that I hadn't been misreading the signals you'd been sending," he says, fiddling with the head of his cane. "I…I thought that I could solve two problems in one."

Newt gapes at him. "Are you—are you asking me _out_?" he squeaks, and Hermann nods.

"Well, yes, if that's—if that's what you want," he stammers, cheeks reddening.

" _Fuck_ yeah!" Newt exclaims, grinning, "yeah, that'd be—that'd be great. Also, maybe you could—" he makes a complicated gesture. Hermann stares at him for a moment.

"Your…face? Nose? No, your lips," he mutters. "Your lips and mine—oh! Oh, you want me to _kiss_ you!" He beams at Newt, the expression lighting up his entire face, and says, "Yes, of course—come here."

Newt obliges, leaning forward and tilting his head so they're at a less awkward angle, and Hermann kisses him sweetly. "I can't believe you had my shirt," he comments when he pulls back, running a hand over the black button-up that Newt's wearing again. "I've been looking for it for ages—I even asked my students to keep a look out for it."

Newt bursts into laughter. "Oh my god, all this is because of—because of a _shirt_?" he questions. "I don't even—I don't even know how I got it!"

Hermann's lips twitch with a smile, and he reaches for Newt's hand twining them together. "And what a lucky shirt indeed," he says. "What a very lucky shirt."


	18. 18

**this is my kingdom come**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Post-Pitfall, Hermann wakes up by Newt's side."**

* * *

Hermann wakes, pressed in an awkward position, an arm thrown over his waist. He shifts, confused, and the person pressed against him groans. The sound percolates through his mind, and he realizes who it's from— _Newt_.

The man in question mumbles something, pressing his face against Hermann's neck, seeming to doze off again, and Hermann whispers, throat hoarse, "Newton—Newton, get _off_ of me."

This, at least, seems to get his attention, and Newt bolts upright, the sudden movement making Hermann's head pound—ah, yes, the _Drift connection_. Lovely. His head spins for a moment longer, and he tries to stay still, stomach already queazy.

"What's wrong?" Newt questions, frantically scanning the room, "is there another Kaiju—" he stops. "Hermann, did we really—?"

Hermann nods carefully. "Yes, we did."

" _Fuck_ ," Newt breathes, eyes wide, "dude, we _stopped the apocalypse_. What the _fuck_?!" He climbs out of the tiny bed, careful to not jostle Hermann, and begins pacing. "Wait, if the Kaiju aren't coming anymore, then…what happens to us? I mean, what do we do?"

Hermann presses his eyes closed. "I have no idea, darling. None at all."

Newt gapes at him. "What—you don't? You have contingency plans for _everything."_

"I…" Hermann pauses. "I didn't think…"

"That we'd win?" Newt questions. Hermann's silence is answer enough. "Oh, Herman…" he makes his way back to the bed, sits at the edge, strokes Hermann's hair. "I…I'm so sorry, Hermann. I knew you were stressed, but I didn't think…"

 _I didn't think that you thought it was a hopeless goal_. The words echo through his mind, and Hermann draws in a breath. "Did you…?" he questions. Newt stills.

"Ah, shit," he mumbles. "I didn't realize that Drifting would do… _that_." He lets out a nervous laugh. "Sorry, I'll try and…try and not. Since you probably don't want my thoughts bumping around in your head."

Feeling less queazy, now, Hermann reaches out a hand to clumsily pat Newt's cheek. "No, don't apologize, darling, it's not your fault."

Newt drops his head, and Hermann pats the space by his side. "Come lie down, Newton. We can figure it out in the morning, yes?"

Newt lets out a shaky breath. "Yeah, yeah. Yeah, later. Alright. Thanks." Carefully, he climbs back into the bed next to Hermann, and Hermann rolls over, putting an arm over him, drags the blanket up so it covers the both of them.

With a soft sigh, Newt relaxes against him, breath evening out, and Hermann allows the warmth to lull him to sleep.


	19. 19

**sorry, I think I've fallen...for you**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "When Newt invented a boyfriend, he didn't expect his father to find a man of the exact same name working at the new coffee-place downtown."**

* * *

"So, Newt," his dad says, "I met Hermann the other day at the Shatterdome." Newt freezes, mug halfway to his mouth.

"O––oh?" he squeaks, "you did?" Hermann is…Hermann is a man that Newt made up, in a moment of weakness; that is to say, Jacob was pestering him about his relationship status––or lack thereof––and, in an attempt to change the subject, Newt may or may not have told him that he's dating Hermann from the new coffee-place downtown.

"Yeah, he was a bit weird about it, but he seems nice," Jacob bubbles, slurping the multi-coloured cream on his own drink. "You should invite him over some time!"

"Yeah," Newt says, faintly, "yeah, I…I'll be sure to do that." The previous sweetness of the the cocoa has soured on his tongue. _Shit_ , what's he supposed to do?

His first order of business is to actually _talk_ to this Hermann. So, the next day, he goes downtown to the new coffee place––the Shatterdome, apparently––and asks one of the waiters for Hermann.

"Hermann?" she asks, "yeah, give me a minute, I'll grab him." She disappears behind the counter for a moment before returning with a lanky brunet.

"Er," Newt says, sticking out a hand. "Hermann? I'm Newt." Hermann regards his hand for a moment, and Newt finally drops it, letting out a nervous laugh. "Yeah, okay, um. I came in to apologize for my father? I may have accidentally lead him to believe that we're dating…"

"You _what_ , man?" the other man behind the counter asks, pausing in his adjustment of his bowtie.

"Tendo, be quiet," Hermann hisses. "Do go on, Mr…."

"Geiszler. Newt Geiszler," he fills in. "Also, thank you. For, um, not destroying my father's illusion that his son has happy, fulfilling relationships." Newt grins at him.

Hermann shrugs. "I had nothing better to tell him," he replies. "Now, would you like to order something, or…?"

Newt starts, flushing. "Ah, n––no, no coffee for me today, I just wanted to say thanks." Hermann nods, turns to leave, and Newt blurts out, "But, um, if there's any pastry you could recommend?"

Hermann stares at him for a moment, raises a brow. "Try the cheesecake," he says, disappearing into the kitchen. Newt orders the chocolate cheesecake, the rich filling melting on his tongue within seconds.

The next week, when he has a moment of free-time between classes, he goes back. There are a few people inside, but it's mostly empty. Hermann's behind the counter, and Newt skips up, offers a dazzling grin. "So, what do you recommend?"

Hermann looks like he's about to get a headache, but, nevertheless, replies. "We have a new tropical fruit tea blend that goes well with the scones." Newt lets out a hum.

"Alright, I'll take a tall chai latte and a croissant," he says. Hermann looks like he wants to slap him.

The next time he comes in, Hermann recommends the lemon meringue and a cup of earl grey. Newt pretends to think it over, and, after a minute, orders a triple-shot espresso and a rainbow sprinkle-covered cupcake. If looks could kill, Newt would be ancient history.

* * *

Four months later, they run into each other on campus. It's for some mandatory faculty function, black tie or some shit, but, even though he's only part-time, he's required to attend. What Newt is wearing is _technically_ a black tie, so Pentecost needs to stop pestering him about it _._

Newt spots him almost immediately; with his elegant cane and old-style clothes that give off a stuffy-18th-century-professor vibe, Hermann is hard to miss. Newt makes a beeline for where he's standing awkwardly in the corner. "Hermann!" he exclaims, "dude, I didn't know you taught!"

Hermann sniffs. "I do. Theoretical physics, though only part-time."

"So, did Pentecost force you to come as well?" Newt questions, "cause he forced me to." Assbutt.

"Ah, no," Hermann says, "I always attend."

"I don't," Newt shrugs, "must be why I've never seen you on campus."

Hermann mutters, "Good. I'm not sure I could stomach seeing more of you than necessary."

"Hey!" Newt exclaims, "that was uncalled for!"

"You," Hermann hisses, "are the most aggravating person I've had the displeasure to meet. You constantly ask me for recommendations, and then ignore my suggestions––why not just not ask? Or do you find some perverse joy in watching me suffer through listening to your tasteless combinations?"

Newt clasps a hand to his heart. "I would never!"

Hermann rolls his eyes. "Yes, you would."

Newt sighs. "Alright, fine, maybe I would. But it's only because no one else indulges in my random tangents––I mean, you act like you hate me, but the other day, we got into a heated debate about the semantics of the X-Men."

"It makes no sense," Hermann insists. "Regardless, you could go bother literally anyone else with your inane chatter."

"What, and deprive you of my wonderful presence?" Newt teases, "c'mon, we both know you enjoy it."

Hermann sighs, leans against the wall. "Well, I will admit, our arguments are the most stimulating part of my otherwise monotonous shift."

"Hah!" Newt crows, "I knew it!"

* * *

They wind up meeting up once a month or so. Hermann is hilarious once Newt manages to get him to relax, his humor dry and deadpan. He's still prickly and awkward, but it's endearing.

Ah, shit. It's _endearing_. Newt freezes, the pizza halfway to his mouth. By his side, Hermann throws his head back, laughing at something in the movie they're watching. Newt's eyes flit to the curl of his lips, and he thinks, _fuck._

In his defence, it's wholly accidental––all of it. He didn't _mean_ to make up a boyfriend for his dad, and he didn't intend to try and get to know Hermann better, and he most _certainly_ didn't mean to wind up with a _crush_ on him.

"Is there something on my face?" Hermann asks, breaking him out of his state of panic.

"No, nope, nada, you're great!" Newt lets out a nervous laugh. "Nope, you're––you're fine." Hermann shoots him a strange look but drops it, and Newt tries to immerse himself in the movie again.

 _The problem_ , he thinks, after Hermann leaves, _is that, once the proverbial Pandora's Box is opened, there's no turning back._

And there isn't. He catches himself sending embarrassingly sappy looks at the other, practically swooning when he breaks into picks Newt's lock to bring him soup when he's sick and dotes on him like a mother hen.

"Really, you don't have to do this, Herms," he protests, voice scratchy, and lets out a hacking cough. Hermann levels him with a disbelieving look and pours a measure of cough medicine and hands him a cup of water.

Newt throws it back, grimacing, and tries to drown the taste with the water. "I want ice cream," he mutters.

"You're _sick_ ," Hermann points out.

"Killjoy." His eyes are slipping shut, though, dragged down by exhaustion.

Just before he slips into sleep, there's a warmth on his cheek, and he hears Hermann murmur, "Sleep well…Newt."

* * *

He wakes, the duvet tucked neatly up to his chin, the weak sunlight barely filtering through the blinds. There's a warmth against his shoulder, and he peers, practically cross-eyed, to find Hermann's head pillowed on his shoulder, the rest of his body sprawled awkwardly on a chair.

"Hermann," he whispers, "Hermann, dude, wake up."

When that doesn't work, he shifts, trying to dislodge the other, but Hermann lets out a whine. "Hermann," he tries again, louder. "C'mon, man, that _cannot_ be comfortable."

Finally, Hermann stirs, blinking to wakefulness. For a second, he looks confused, before he pales, shooting upright. "I—I'm so sorry—" he stammers, "I didn't mean—if I overstepped—"

"Dude, it's fine," Newt cuts him off. "I just didn't think you looked very comfortable there."

"Oh," Hermann says, flushing. "Er."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better—" Newt's interrupted by another bout of coughing. "Damnit, that _hurts_ ," he complains. "But as I was saying: I wouldn't be opposed if you were to…overstep. If you get what I mean."

Hermann stares at him, eyes comically wide, and squeaks, "What?"

"Look, tell me if I'm reading this wrong," Newt says, propping himself up against the headboard. "But I'm interested in you, and you're interested in me, so…"

Hermann makes a strangled sound. "Y—yes. I am," he croaks.

"Okay," Newt grins. "Good. Cuz I have the biggest crush on you, and as soon as I get over this, I want to date you. Like, full on, sappy and romantic wooing shit."

Hermann blushes, glancing at the floor. "Well, then," he says, "you'd better take your cough medicine."

"Oh god, no," Newt whines. "It tastes awful!"

Hermann's eyes flick up, a devious glint in them. "What if I promised you a kiss?" he proposes.

"Okay, hand over the medicine," Newt grumbles, and measures out another dose, swallowing it with a grimace. "Kiss?"

Hermann leans in, and Newt's eyes flutter closed, expectant. Except, instead of a kiss on the lips, Hermann presses his lips to Newt's forehead. "Hey!" Newt exclaims, glaring.

Hermann shrugs. "You're sick, Newton."

Newt huffs, but stops glowering, conceding to the point. Hermann pats his arm consolingly and twines their fingers together.

hm


	20. 20

**ashes to ashes (we all fall down)**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Post-Uprising, the PPDC has no intention of ever allowing Newt any freedom. Hermann has other plans."**

* * *

The glassy gaze on Newton— _Newt's_ eyes is one that Hermann still isn't used to; hell, he's never going to get used to it, used to seeing this man, his Drift-partner, lab-mate, behind glass, eyes glazed over from the effort of keeping the Precursors at bay.

"When can he leave?" he asked the medical officers the first week, still naively hopeful. "When can he—when can he come back?" _To me?_

She'd given him a blank stare. "Doctor Gottlieb, the prisoner will likely remain under PPDC supervision for the rest of his life." The prisoner, she says, like he's just that; just another one of the PPDC detainees. Hermann wanted to take her by the shoulders, ask her _do you understand who Newt Geiszler is? Can you possibly comprehend?_

They don't comprehend; that's the problem. They want to treat him as if he bears sole responsibility for the damage, instead of having to accept the harsh reality that, though it may have been his hands coding that code, they weren't doing it of his own free will.

They don't want to face the fact that Newton Geiszler is a victim, too; they don't want to accept that he had no control, because accepting that means admitting the world isn't black and white and clean-cut. The PPDC—hah, what a joke. What was once the last defense of humanity is now an over-glorified militia run by _children_ with no experience.

He looks at the glassy eyes of Newton Geiszler, bound to a chair in a straight-jacket in a white-padded room, limp from exertion, and thinks, _I cannot let this go on any longer._

Two days later, they're on a plane to Italy; Newt's wrists, rubbed raw by the bindings he's had on for months, are hidden under Hermann's jumper, the knit sleeves coming to his palms. He leans into Hermann, blinking slowly. "Is he alright?" the stewardess asks.

"He's fine," Hermann replies, a strained smile on his lips, "it's just his medications; he gets nervous on flights, you understand." She smiles, nods, bids them a good flight.

Newton always did say he was a terrible liar.

He's had ten years to practice.

Hermann situates Newt into the seat next to him. Without the red-tinted sunglasses, and in an over-large knit sweater, Newt looks…frail. The chronic stress and lack of sleep have sunken his eyes, and his face is gaunter, less full. Hermann's heart aches.

Through the ride, Newt remains tucked against his side; his face is buried in the crook of Hermann's neck, body angled towards him. He's practically unrecognizable, which is the intended effect, as they're now effectively fugitives from justice.

Well, Newton always did like the Mission: Impossible movies; now he gets to have an adventure of his own. A wry smile twists at Hermann's lips. All things considered, this may as well be a vacation for the both of them.

When the flight finally lands, Hermann wakes him. He blinks to wakefulness, eyes wide and alert, before he realizes it's just Hermann and loses some of the caged-animal look in his eyes. "Hermann?" he questions, "what are we doing? Where are we?"

Hermann takes his hand. "Not now, Newton. Do you trust me?"

"Of course," Newt says, without missing a beat, and Hermann wonders if he ever thought he would.

The house Hermann has procured them is on a small island off the mainland; close enough to get to by rowboat or a small motorized craft, and discreet. They haven't much with them; only the essentials are in the small carry-on bag.

Hermann lets Newt take the bed while he unpacks, pretending that they're both doing something useful.

(The Drift bond still aches from their ten years of separation.)

There's a sudden, pained cry, and a thump from the bedroom, and Hermann bolts to the bedroom, heart in in throat. Newt's curled in a ball on the floor, pressed into the corner of the room. His body's shaking.

"Newton?" Hermann ventures, "are you—are you hurt?"

Newt lets out a dry sob. "I—fuck, I can't. I just can't. So don't make me. I can't—I can't do it any faster, please, I swear, I'm doing my best, don't—don't hurt Hermann, _please_ —"

Hermann's breath catches in his throat. "Newton, it's alright, I'm right here," he tries to reassure the other, dropping to his knees, cane clattering to the floor, but Newt makes a terrified whimper and draws in on himself further, mumbling rapidly.

"I'll be better, I swear, not Hermann, _please_ —"

 _It's the Precursors_ , Hermann realizes, _this is what they did to him._

It lights a blaze of anger in his heart; anger at the Precursors, for hurting Newt like this, anger that Newt is terrified. He watches helplessly, unable to do anything to draw the other out of his state of terror, as Newt rocks from side to side, clawing at his arms.

Hermann lunges forward as soon as he realizes that, in his distress, Newt is digging deep enough to draw blood, wraps his arms around the man, takes a hand in each of his own and pins them to his sides. In his arms, Newt cries out in fear, eyes wild and unfocused, and Hermann's heart breaks all over again.

Finally, the fight goes out of him, and the violent shaking stops, Newt collapsing limply against him, tears soaking through his clothes. Hermann holds him carefully but tightly, whispers soothing words into his ear. "It's alright, darling, listen to my voice, alright? Breathe in with me, Newton—one, two, three, four, one, two…"

Newt's breathing finally evens out, growing shallower until he's fallen asleep. Hermann stands, carefully, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg, and manages to get Newt under the covers. With a hesitant hand, he brushes the sweat-slicked strands of hair away from his face, presses his lips against Newt's crown. Newt lets out a soft sigh, the tight lines around his mouth softening.

Once he's changed into his night clothes, he carefully lifts the covers, afraid that any sudden movement will jolt Newt back into a state of panic. Thankfully, he doesn't stir, and Hermann positions himself so they both have enough room.

The instant he relaxes, though, Newt throws an arm over his torso, fingers curling against his chest. "…I'm so sorry," he whispers, voice still thick with sleep. "I didn't…I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's not your fault," Hermann replies, adamantly. "Like I told you, I still…get nightmares. I'm here if you need me, Newton, do you understand? I'm not going to leave you."

There's a moment of silence, before Newt murmurs, voice choked, "…thank you."

Hesitantly, Hermann rolls over, placing his own arm tentatively around Newt, hyper-aware in case it's a bad move. The physical contact makes him sigh and relax, though, so Hermann leaves his arm where it is. "Goodnight, Newton."

"Thank you," Newt says, instead. "I don't…I don't deserve any of this."

"Maybe not, but…" Hermann pauses. "If it helps you, I'm more than willing to keep doing this. And…and physical contact helps me, too. I—" he swallows, emotion flooding his voice. "I missed you, all those years."

"I missed you too," Newt says, voice choked. "…goodnight, Hermann."


	21. 21

**and if you were by my side**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Hermann is avoiding any mention of the Drift. Newt doesn't know why."**

* * *

"Hermann," Newt says, "this morning I spent an hour reliving our first meeting." Hermann raises a brow, unimpressed. "…I saw it through your eyes," Newt says, softly. "I'm—I'm sorry, Hermann, for what I said."

Hermann freezes. "You should get your beaker off of the burner before it overflows," he says, dodging Newt's question. Newt turns around, almost giving himself whiplash, and rushes over to the burner where, like Hermann warned, the experiment is bubbling violently.

" _Shit_ ," he hisses, grabbing a pair of hot-mitts and pulls it off of the burner, letting out a sigh of relief when the bubbling lessens. "Thanks, Herms," he says, "'cause if that had exploded, the lab would've burnt down."

Hermann nods and redirects his attention to his paper. Newt dismisses the change of subject as merely concern on Hermann's part.

Then it happens again, though. Newt's standing, this time, next to Hermann; they're waiting for Hermann's notes on a new coding project of his to load up onto the computer from his flash-drive, and—

—his gaze blurs, the colors fading and his skin is too tight for his massive form, the thin human epidermis feeling like it's going to burst with massive silicate muscles—

—he's suddenly gangly, fingers burnt at the tips from copper electrical wires, the sense of _shame_ and _worthlessness_ as his leg flares up, the pain making him stumble, why can't his body just _work—_

"—Newton! Newton!" Hermann's shaking his shoulders frantically, a hand at his pulse. "Are you alright?"

"Nng," Newt groans, "…'m fine. I think? What—what happened?" His head's pounding, and his vision is doubling, somehow, and _he's_ staring at himself, but he's also _at_ himself—

 _God, that's trippy._

Hermann's worried face hovers in front of his. "You froze for a moment, and then you—you started seizing." His hand hovers over Newt's cheek, expression vulnerable and open, and Newt's breath hitches. Then the moment passes, and he says, brusquely, "You should go to medical to get it checked out."

"Hey, wait I just ghost-Drifted with you—aren't we going to talk about this?" Newt questions, but Hermann's already pushed himself to his feet, halfway across the room.

After he goes to medical, gets subjected to multiple tests and brain-scans, they clear him as mentally sound, but the doctor in charge fixes him with a stern glare, and says, in a no-nonsense tone, "Bed rest, Doctor Geiszler—two days minimum."

Newt gives a tight-lipped smile. "Yep, sure."

"Geiszler…" she warns. "If I have reason to believe you will ignore my orders, I have the clearance to keep you confined to medical for two days."

Newt raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, I get the message, doc, loud and clear. Two days bed rest. Got it." He shoots her a nervous look, praying that it'll work. Thankfully, it does, and he's allowed to leave.

Bed-rest, as it turns out, means that as soon as Hermann finds out about his orders—which is to say, within hours—he's forced into bed, piled under three different blankets, Hermann hovering around his quarters.

Throughout it all, Hermann studiously avoids talking about _why_ he's confined to bed-rest. Newt lets out a sigh. "If…if you don't want to talk about it then say so. Don't lie and pretend to be fine when you clearly aren't," he says. "I—I don't know why you don't want to talk about—about our Drift, but just…talk to me, Hermann." He hesitates, continues, "Just…tell me what you want, Hermann. I'm not a mind-reader."

Hermann freezes, pill-bottle falling from his loose fingers. "Hermann?" Newt ventures, "are you—are you alright?"

"…what did you see in the Drift?" Hermann questions, voice quiet.

"Um," Newt pauses. "Well, I mean, not a ton—mostly just memories of you as a kid, some from when you were in uni…oh, and that one about our first meeting. I…" he trails off. "I'm sorry about that, Hermann, I was a total jerk to you."

Hermann refuses to meet his gaze. "We were both young and foolish. I was simply…over-expectant. You needn't apologize."

Newt stares at him, confused at the odd undertone to his voice. "What do you mean, "over-expectant"?" He shifts, trying to catch Hermann's eyes, but the other turns, shoulders stiff. "Hermann?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Hermann says, voice wavering. "Please, Newton. I…" he rises, drags a hand across his face. "It's getting late. I should—I should get back to my own quarters," he says stiffly. "Good night, Newt—Doctor Geiszler."

"Doct—" Newt gapes at him. "What are you—" but he's already gone, leaving Newt reeling like he's been back-handed. The pill bottle lays on the ground a few feet away from his bed, and Hermann's left a cup of tea on the counter. Newt's lip trembles, and he pulls the covers around himself, pressing his face into the pillow.

* * *

When Newt's bedrest is over, he returns to the lab. The Line of Demarcation has been removed, but he remembers where it was vividly. Despite the lack of the physical divider, however, the proverbial one is chasmic. In an attempt to win back Hermann's favor—the _Doctor Geiszler_ rings in his ears, like they're back in '20, Hermann forcing the barrier of professionalism back into place—he keeps his mess to his side of the lab, plays music with his ear-buds in, and doesn't pester Hermann.

It's…it's painful, honestly, because sometimes Newt will get an idea, and he'll look up, mouth opening to shout it at Hermann, before he remembers that Hermann probably _does not care_. The only reason he's sticking around is likely some misplaced sense of responsibility towards Newt.

"Newton?" Hermann asks, tentatively, as Newt's putting a few test-tubes into the cooler.

Newt turns to face him. "What?" he asks, tiredly. "I'm following proper procedure, du—Doctor Gottlieb. Nothing's going to explode, I promise. I may be an inept Kaiju groupie, but I can follow safety procedure, so…" he shrugs.

"Inept Kaiju—what are you _talking_ about?" Hermann questions, brow furrowed. Newt gives a self-deprecating laugh.

"I know what people say about me, Herm—Doctor Gottlieb," he corrects himself. "It's okay, I don't blame them—I don't blame you. Just…" he pauses. "Just tell me whatever it is so we can go back to normal."

"Normal?" Hermann breathes. "You think this is—this is _normal_? Newton, I—"

Newt waves him off. "It's fine. I get it. I'll…I'll be more professional," he promises. "You won't even notice I'm here, I swear—"

"Damn it, Newton that's not what I want!" Hermann snaps, jaw clenched. "I don't want you to—to—" he stops, lips pursed tightly. "I just want to—I just want to make sure you're alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Newt replies. "Now you've done your obligatory check-up on me, Doctor Gottlieb, you can—"

Hermann cuts him off with a growl, grabs the collar of his shirt and pulls him close. " _Listen_ to me, you aggravating man, I'm not asking because I feel obligated to, I'm asking because I'm your _friend_ and I care about your well-being!"

Newt gapes at him. "But—I thought—"

"Well you thought wrong!" Hermann snaps. "Of course I care about you, Newton, I thought you _knew_ that by now! I Drifted with you, you moron!"

"You didn't have a choice," Newt says, weakly. "I—"

"Shut _up and listen_!" Hermann demands, and Newt's mouth snaps closed. "I care about you, Newton, more than I can comprehend. I…please, just tell me what's wrong." A bit of the fight goes out of his voice, and he lets go of Newt, stumbling back. "I—I apologize—"

"No, wait, Hermann—" Newt reaches out, grasping Hermann's arm. "I—I thought you wanted to go back to—I thought you finally decided that I was too close. I thought you wanted to go back to a purely professional relationship. I didn't…"

"No, why—?" Hermann asks, puzzled.

"When I…when I was assigned bed rest," Newt says, quietly. "You—I asked you about our first meeting, and you…you called me "Doctor Geiszler"."

"Oh," Hermann says, faintly. "I—I…" he trails off, gaze fixed on the floor. "I was trying to remind myself that…that certain lines shouldn't be crossed."

Newt's breath hitches. "What lines?" Hermann refuses to meet his searching gaze, and it all suddenly clicks. Barely believing it, Newt asks, "Do you…do you have romantic feelings for me?"

Hermann freezes, head turned away, as if expecting—what? "Oh, Hermann," Newt says, "that's—is that why you freaked out when I tried to bring up the Drift? Because you were afraid I'd—what, mock you for it?"

"…yes." It's barely a whisper, but Hermann's eyes are wet when he meets Newt's.

"I would _never_ ," Newt says, "I would _never_ do that, Hermann, not to anyone and definitely not to you, okay? And I…" he pauses. The feelings are there—they've been there for years. He just never had a name for them, until now. "I care for you too, Hermann, a lot, more than…more than I can comprehend," he says, softly, echoing Hermann's words.

Hermann gazes at him, eyes wide with surprise, and croaks, "I…you do?"

"I do," Newt confirms, pulling him in for a hug. Hermann rests his head on Newt's shoulder, a hesitant smile on his lips. The expression melts Newt's heart, and, almost unconsciously, he returns the smile.


	22. 22

**the Nile's not just a river in Egypt...**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "All evidence points towards one solution. Newt, of course, ignores the evidence"**

* * *

"No."

The word echoes in his mind, the weight of it settling heavily in his gut, combined with the sudden silence, leaves him reeling. "I—what?" Newt croaks, stunned.

Byron shakes his head. "No, Newt. I'm not interested in you. You're not a bad person, you just…" he pauses. "You're too manic and hyper. It would never work." He shoots Newt an apologetic smile, turns to leave. Newt can feel the eyes of everyone around's gazes on him.

"…oh," he says, quietly, dropping his head. The box of fine chocolates sits on the café table, the bright red bow listing sadly to the side from where Newt attempted to tie it in the middle. Sadly, he picks it up, shoves it into his bag. The papers within crinkle as the weight of the box crushes them, but Newt can't bring himself to care.

* * *

When he gets back to the flat, Hermann's sitting in the leather arm-chair, filling out a cross-word puzzle, a cup of tea balanced on the arm. When Newt enters, he glances up. "Newton," he greets, before frowning at his lack of reply. "Is everything alright?"

"Mhm," Newt says, listlessly, "I'll be in my room if you need me."

Hermann sets the paper down. "Newton, what's wrong?"

Newt sighs, shoulders falling. "I just…I didn't have a great day, dude, alright?" he says, miserably. "Just—just leave it, okay?"

Hermann's lips thin into a straight line. "Come here," he commands, rising from his seat. Newt sets down his bag and, after a moment of dithering, complies. Hermann wraps his arms around Newt, the cold of his fingers seeping through Newt's shirt, comforting and grounding, and Newt presses his face into the soft knit of his sweater-vest. "Better?" Hermann asks, softly, and Newt nods. "Good. I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa, and then you can go to bed. It'll all be fine."

Except the next morning, when he turns on his phone, there's fifteen text messages, and one link from Mako that says "Newt, you have to see this". An ominousness creeps up his spine, and, with a hesitance usually reserved for experiments that might explode acid all over the lab, he taps the link.

It's a youtube video, shot from a shaky hand-held device, but the camera focuses on two figures at a table, a box with a distinctive red bow between them. _Oh, shit_ , Newt thinks, fears confirmed as the lens focuses on the shorter of the two. It's Newt.

Byron rises, says, "No." The camera zooms in on Newt's slack face. Someone in the background whispers _oh my god, is that Professor Geiszler?_ He checks the video. _179, 394 views, 3, 446 comments._ Newt closes the tab, types, still in shock, _mako, what's this?_

After a second, Mako's reply pops up on the screen. _It's all over twitter and tumblr. They're tagging it "#MITreject"_

Newt's chest tightens, the humiliation making his skin crawl. Against his better judgement, he opens the link again and checks the comments.

 _under_grad: omg it IS prof. g!_

 _j-k-wILdcard: wtf? thats awful! i kind of feel bad for him rn…_

The comments continue in a similar fashion, expressing various sentiments; pity, however, is clearly at the forefront of every comment. Eyes watering, Newt turns the phone off and shoves it under his pillow. He feels awful.

Hermann notices, because of course he does; it may be Saturday, but Newt never spends more than three hours in his room without making a single sound.

The bed dips as Hermann sits down. "What happened?" he asks, softly. Newt lets out a sad sigh, and, wordlessly, digs his phone out and hands it to him. Hermann bypasses the security with ease that should be alarming, but is somehow grounding in its reminder that they've been in each others' minds.

"…oh," he says. "Newton, I…"

"It's alright," Newt says, face hidden in the pillow. "I just…I need some time to process. And get used to the fact that my students are going to be pitying me for the rest of the year." He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "It was bound to happen at some—better sooner than later."

There's a moment of silence, before Hermann's fingers are carding through his hair in a silent gesture of support. "I…" he pauses. "If it really bothers you that much that they… _pity_ you, then I can—well, if you'd like, I…"

Words fail him, but Newt has an inkling of what he's trying to say—he _did_ spend the better part of a decade sharing a lab with him. "You—you would do that for me?" he asks, sniffling, and Hermann gives a tiny nod.

"Of course."

The plan goes off beautifully––Hermann invites Newt to the very same café, buys him an extravagant bouquet of flowers, and asks him out in front of everyone. The earnest eagerness leaves tears in Newt's eyes and does funny things to his heart, especially when Hermann bestows him with a small, but genuine smile.

"Thank you," Newt says to Hermann, quietly, afterwards. "I…" he doesn't know what to say. Hermann gives him an understanding look.

"Let's go home," he suggests.

 _Home_. There's something about the way he says the word, tender and awed and yet at the same casual, like it's the only possible thing he could say. _Our home_ , Newt realizes, and it knocks the breath out of him for a moment. _When did it go from just_ home _to_ our home _?_ The fact of the matter is, Newt hasn't a clue—the progression from _lab partners_ to _cohabitation_ is dangerously blurred, as if it was less of a switch and more of a long, slippery slope, a natural progression.

 _Oh, no_ , Newt thinks, _I think I love him._

* * *

Afterwards, it becomes startlingly clear that Newt moved from _hate_ to _love_ a long, long time ago—hell, it wasn't even hate in the first place; it was disappointment; disappointment at _himself_ for running his mouth off and driving Hermann away.

Additionally, it also becomes clear that all of these things Newt does—reading to Hermann when he has a nightmare, making his tea just how he likes it after a stressful day—are…domestic. Disgustingly so; they resemble, more and more as Newt thinks on it, an old married couple.

Oh, if only! Hermann, clearly, harbors nothing other than an exasperated fondness towards Newt; if he did have any romantic feelings for Newt, he the type to say it and get it out and over with, not dilly-dally about it.

So, Newt does what anyone in his situation would: he pines.

It's hard not to, given that every little thing Hermann does—the curl at the corner of his lips when Newt makes an especially snarky remark, the way his hair is adorably fluffed up in the morning after he showers—makes his heart-rate quicken and his cheeks heat.

He reflects that it was only a matter of time; he's been stuck with Hermann for the better part of a decade, and, before then, almost five years spent writing back and forth—it was an inevitability, really; he falls hard and fast anyway, and combine that with more than a decade of orbiting around Hermann—well, it was bound to happen.

Only, to make matters worse, Hermann doesn't stop at the grand gesture of _asking him out—_ no, he acts like Newt's boyfriend in public. If it didn't make Newt's heart sing with joy, he thinks that the constant almost-kisses would kill him. Almost, because as much as he wants it to be real, it isn't, and he's not going to be a dick and take advantage of Hermann like that.

So, because he isn't sure what to say— _Hermann, you don't have to keep pretending you want me_ sounds pathetic—he resolves to say nothing. At least, until Hermann walks out of his bedroom one morning, and makes him way towards Newt.

Newt expects him to just grab the cup of tea Newt's made him, sitting on the coffee-table next to Newt's mug of coffee, but instead, Hermann picks up the cup, pats Newt's shoulder, eyes still half-lidded, presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and says, "Thank you," before disappearing back into his room.

Newt remains frozen in his seat, uncertain of what's just happened, the ghost of Hermann's lips on his cheek.

Except then it happens again. And again. It's driving Newt insane—what purpose could there be to it? They're in private—there's no one to pretend for. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _this is just Hermann practicing so that it's convincing when we're in public?_

Yes, that's the only logical explanation.

The only logical explanation for the situation at hand, though it's failing slightly, given that they've just gotten back from a nice dinner—Hermann insisted on paying, and Newt agrees, since he paid last time they went out—and Hermann's pressed him against the wall, one hand hooked under his tie, the other at the base of his neck, kissing the living daylights out of him.

When they break apart, Newt lets out a soft whimper and swallows, trying to breathe properly. Hermann's eyes track the movement, settling on his lips. Suddenly, the explanation makes no sense—actually, it's pretty blown to pieces. Newt croaks, "So, this is probably a bad time to ask, but are we…dating?"

Hermann stares at him. "…yes?" he says, uncertainly. "I thought you knew that?"

Newt lets out a huff of laughter. "Funny story, that—I thought that you were. Pretending. Because of that thing…months ago…" he trails off, suddenly remembering the day after.

Hermann cooked them lasagne for dinner and they watched some new sci-fi movie, and Hermann had asked, "So, Newton, will you go on a date with me?"

Newt had, at the time, laughed it off, assuming Hermann was joking, but he'd said yes anyway, because—because—because _he wanted to date Hermann_.

"Holy _shit_ ," Newt breathes. "That was for real?"

"Yes?" Hermann questions. "You…you didn't know that?"

"No, I—I thought you were joking!" Newt exclaims. "I mean, _I_ wanted it to be real, but it seemed too good to be true, so I figured it wasn't, but—but it was?"

Hermann lets his head fall to Newt's shoulder, shaking slightly. "Yes, Newton, it was—it was very real," he gasps through his laughter. "I cannot believe you managed to brush it off as—as an accident. Hell, I've been taking you out on dates for the past few months."

Newt gapes, even though Hermann can't see, and says, weakly, "…oh."

"Quite," Hermann agrees, pulling back to look him in the eye. "Now that that's been cleared up, would you like to continue?"

" _Yes_ ," Newt says, emphatically, and drags a more-than-willing Hermann down for another kiss.


	23. 23

**lay down your weary head (let me help you carry your burden)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt's having an off day. Hermann does his best to help."**

* * *

"Newton?" Hermann calls, eyes flicking over his equations. "Would you pass me the tablet on my desk?" When there's no response, he frowns, and calls, "Newton? Are you alright there?"

There's silence yet again, and, worry mounting, Hermann turns, scanning the lab for his partner. The other side of the lab is silent, lacking the wet sounds of kaiju entrails and other miscellaneous bits and bobs being experimented on by Newton, or his chatter as he logs something on the recorder. Finally, he spies the other, laying flat on his back on the floor.

Hermann gnaws at his lip and climbs down from his perch on the ladder, grabs his cane from where it's hanging, and makes his way over to Newton. The biologist is spread-eagle on the floor, somehow having found a patch of ground not covered in water or kaiju viscera, eyes closed. "Newton? Are you alright?" Hermann hazards.

For a moment, it seems as if Newt hasn't heard him, before he lets out a deep sigh, and murmurs, voice dull, "Yeah, I…I'm just a bit overwhelmed."

Hermann raises a questioning brow, even though the other can't see it, and shifts so that he's not putting as much weight on his leg. "What happened?"

There's a moment of silence, and Newt's eyes open partially, and he stares off blankly into the middle-distance. "I just…" he pauses and lets out another sigh. "'s just too much sometimes, y'know? Like, my head won't stop…" he waves vaguely, drops his hands back to the ground by his side.

Hermann swallows. Carefully, he lowers himself down beside the biologist and reaches for one of his hands. Newt lets him take it, the limb limp against Hermann's palm. He's not sure what to say––they've been around each other for years, but _comfort_ and _care_ aren't words people usually associate with Hermann, perhaps rightly so, given his general clumsiness with human interaction. He clears his throat. "Do you…do you want to talk about it?"

He's not sure how the other will respond––if he'll brush it off, tell Hermann to stop worrying, or burst into tears, but Newton looks…drained, the set of his jaw that of one trying to hold themselves together and get through a trying ordeal. Hermann contemplates saying something more, but nothing comes to mind.

There's a pause, and then Newt turns his head slightly, adjusting his position. His hand grips Hermann's. "It's just one of those days where everything feels…too much," he says softly. "And––I know I annoy other people by being, well, _me_ , but sometimes I can't keep up with myself. It's…exhausting, like, I mean, my brain is going a million miles a second but I just…don't have the energy to keep up," he finishes sadly.

 _One of those days_ means that Newt's battling with a depressive episode; for all his seemingly endless energy, it all drains away in moments like these, leaving the other tired and looking every one of his dozen years spent trying to stop the Kaiju. Hermann rubs his thumb over Newt's knuckles, purses his lips. "Ah," he says, rather uselessly. "Is there anything I can…do to help?"

"I…" there's a stunned silence, confusion furrowing Newton's brow, as if the offer is one he's never heard before. The thought makes Hermann's heart ache. "No, just…can you stay with me for a bit?" Newt asks plantatively.

"Of course, darling," Hermann replies, the endearment slipping easily from his tongue, as it always does when in Newton's presence. "Of course I will." A small, tentative smile twitches at Newt's lips, and he draws his hand away from Hermann's momentarily, only to press it to his cheek. Though wordless, the simple gesture conveys a thousand words, and an answering smile tugs at Hermann's lips.

He adjusts his position so that he can sit comfortably on the cold floor, and nudges Newt, guiding the other's head into his lap, carding his fingers through Newt's hair, and watches fondly as the other's eyes flutter and finally close, face serene as he drifts off to sleep.


	24. 24

**don't assume (or you'll make an ass out of you and me)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Reasons you should check who you're texting at midnight: Exhibit A"**

* * *

 _hrems_

 _*herms_

 _whatre u doin_

 _im bored_

 _i wish u were here…_

 _i mean im glad ur staying in bed bc ur sick but_

Hermann stares at the screen blearily, eyes stinging slightly even with the brightness all the way down. The messages are timestamped an hour earlier, and he hadn't seen them until just now, exhausted and fast asleep, having crashed in bed for a nap due to the aforementioned sickness.

His brow furrows as he tries to recall what event the other could possibly be attending; as far as he knows, there isn't any sort of party; if there had been, Newton would've talked his ear off about it. If not a party, though, then what?

 _Newt? Where are you?_ he types, having to concentrate extra-hard to avoid typos. For a second, the screen reads _sent_ before switching to _read at 11:26 PM_. After a few minutes, he's about to give up hope of receiving a reply, but then the little pencil icon appears.

 _im not in thne lab if thats what ur askign_

 _im in my room_

 _*asking_

 _*the_

Hermann smiles slightly at the typos; Newton always thinks faster than he can type or speak, and it's endearingly extremely clear in moments like these.

 _im just_

 _sad_

 _i think? idk i might just be hungry…_

The messages are rapid-fire, and it's like having the biologist by his side; his tendency to go off on tangents in real life conversations transfers over to text, as well, the jump from topic-to-topic, while jaring for outside observers, is familiar to Hermann. Comforting, even.

 _im in love and it hurts_

Hermann draws in a deep breath, surprised. _Newt, are you drunk?_

 _no im not stop worrying_

 _okay maybe im overexhausted_

 _i havent slept in 36 hrs_

 _Newton!_ Hermann wants to snap, scold him for his feckless attitude, but text doesn't carry the tone properly. He wants to force the other to take care of himself properly, but he's aware that Newton is a fully-grown adult, and as stubborn as a two-year-old to boot.

 _but like ive only had 1 glass…_

 _but im sad and im rly into him but hes not interested…_

 _fuck tendo i tried to give him flowers and he asked me *why*_

 _and the other day i used the "are u a book cuz im chevking u out" joke nd he stared at me blankly_

 _*checking_

 _i mean its like_

 _"i dont blame you, i wouldn't love me either"_

Hermann stills, because he _remembers_ both of those incidents. He—he'd thought it was a mix-up, or that the biologist was mocking him. Heart racing, he rereads the messages. Oh. _Newton, I'm not Tendo._ There's a second, before the pencil icon returns.

 _fuck_

 _oh god im sorry_

 _ignore that all pls_

 _im so sorry hermann_

 _Wait!_ Hermann types, but it's too late. The screen reads _sent_ but remains that way. Hermann's heart clenches. He wants to get out of bed, race to Newt's room; demand _did you really mean that?_ but he can barely stand at this point, fatigued as he is.

With a frustrated groan and a sneeze, Hermann settles back under the blankets, miserably hoping he'll be well enough to try and speak to Newton in the morning. He hopes…oh, damn that. He fervently desires that Newt feels similarly—what was originally simply a crush has grown and mutated in the past decade to something more deeply rooted; the scent of formaldehyde and a quick smile, the intonations that mean fond exasperation and a scratchy _call me Newt!_

It isn't love, not in the way it's classically portrayed, but it's…something. Something beyond mere friendship, that much is certain.

He drifts off to a restless sleep.

When he blinks awake, the first thought in his mind is _ow_ followed quickly thereafter with _Newton!_ He checks the time. Past nine in the morning. His congestion has cleared up a fair amount, and he no longer feels like falling over when he stands up.

The walk to Newton's room is a blur; two months post-Slattern (post-almost apocalypse, as Newt would say) the Shatterdome is almost half-empty, and he doesn't pass anyone in the halls.

The door handle, when he tries it, is locked; he bangs on it, calls, "Newton? Newton!" Despite what most assume, of the two of them, Newt is the only one who can wake up before ten with any amount of regularity, and Hermann doubts he's asleep.

A few beats pass, and Hermann waits with bated breath, before the locking mechanism clicks and the door swings open to reveal a red-eyed Newton, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a loose, faded graphic tee. "I'm sorry," he says, voice hollow. "Can we just—can we pretend I never said that?"

"Absolutely _not_ ," Hermann snaps. "For once in your life, Newt, act like an adult and face things head-on." It's a low blow, and they both know it, but Hermann, in the face of adversity, is prone to slipping back into old habits.

"I'm sorry," Newt repeats. "I thought you were Tendo."

He tries to slam the door shut, but Hermann insinuates his cane in the way, ducks inside before Newt manages to stop him. "Quit saying that."

"Well what do you _want_ me to say?"

Hermann's lips pull back in frustration, teeth bared as he hisses, "The _truth!_ "

"The truth?" Newt laughs, semi-hysterically, throws his head back. "The _truth_ , _Doctor Gottlieb_ , is that I am, for some insane reason, irrevocably attracted to you!" He's almost shouting at this point, hands clenched into fists.

"As am I!" Hermann spits back, almost a snarl.

It takes a second to register, for both of them, what he's just said, and Newt gapes at him. "You—what?" he breathes, features slack with surprise.

"Yes!" Hermann snaps. "There, I've said it—at least I'm not trying to hide from it!"

"I wasn't!" Newt shouts back, throwing up his hands. "I kept trying to express interest, and you kept thinking it was just a mistake!"

"Well how was I supposed to know you weren't mocking me?" Hermann questions hotly.

Newt lets out a bark of laughter. " _Mock_ you? The hell, Hermann? I might be a dick sometimes, but I thought you held me in a higher regard than that!"

Hermann glares at the other, flushed, and sputtering. "…apologies," he says slowly. "I didn't intend to imply that I think of you as…morally deficient." Newt huffs.

"You bastard," he sighs. "You handsome, annoying, brilliant bastard." This time it's Hermann's turn to sputter incoherently, blushing hotly at the compliments, and fixes his gaze on an interesting sketch on the wall, fingers fidgeting with the head of his cane. Newt's gaze tracks his movements, and from the corner of his eye, Hermann catches him grinning.

"So," he says, sidling up to Hermann, "what do you say we order take out for brunch and cuddle on my bed?"

Hermann clears his throat, trying not to blush further as Newt slips his hand into Hermann's, and finally meets his eyes. "I think that's an _excellent_ idea, Newton."


	25. 25

**if the world's ending tomorrow, I just want to spend today with you**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Hermann's prediction of the double event, and how they deal with it."**

* * *

The _tap tap tap_ of water dripping from the leaky tap into the sink is like a white-noise to Hermann, providing a canvas for his mind to paint a flurry of thoughts over; exhaustion does nothing to slow it––he feels, at the same time, limitless and trapped.

"Hey, man, you okay?" Newtis at his side, hand hovering over his shoulder, and Hermann slumps against him, suddenly no longer able to support himself. "Herman? Herms?"

Hermann takes a second to appreciate the warmth against his cheek, the grounding presence of Newt against him. Behind him, his chalkboards are covered in barely-legible scribbles, unintelligible to the untrained eye, but to Hermann, they mean one thing.

"We're all going to die," he croaks hoarsely. Newt stills at his side.

"Well, given that death is part of the cycle of life, yeah," he says weakly, but there's an apprehension behind the light-hearted words.

"A double event," Hermann continues hollowly. "A double event, then a triple event, and then––" he cuts himself off, and Newt wraps an arm around his shoulder, rubbing his back in soothing circles, and Hermann stares off blankly into the middle-distance. "I just––I thought everything would work out, but it didn't."

Newt laughs, soft and sad. "Yeah. Yeah, it looks like that doesn't it?"

Hermann fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, lets out a soft sigh. "I…I don't know what I was expecting, honestly––we're fighting a losing battle, and somehow I thought––" he pauses. "Well. I…"

"You thought we could get a normal life," Newt fills in. "Yeah, I…I feel you. I mean, like, neither of us are the type to go in for a stereotypical "three-bed one bath white-picket-fence two-point-five kids and a dog" deal but…" He takes one of Hermann's hands in his own. "Hey," he says. "How much have we got until then?"

Hermann closes his eyes, sees the image of the blackboards seared against his mind's eye. "Three months, two days," he replies.

Newt grins. "See? We've got three months, babe––let's make the best of it, yeah?" He presses a kiss to the top of Hermann's head. Hermann lets out a huff, but a smile's tugging at his own lips––Newt is right; regardless of whether or not they die, they've got some time on their hands, and moping about it the entire time is no good.

"Well," he says, "you always did want me to go on a ferris wheel with you."

"That's the spirit!"


	26. 26

**Hermann Gottlieb vs. Feelings**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Hermann may have ten years of experience, but he's really, really dumb sometimes"**

* * *

"My parents asked about you again," Newt says one morning over breakfast, slathering an unholy amount of Nutella on his pancakes, the heat making the chocolate spread drip onto his fingers.

Hermann peers at him over the paper, scowls at the sight. "Use a napkin, you heathen," he scolds. "And I wasn't aware they had asked after me before."

Newt grins and stuffs the entire pancake into his mouth, making Hermann sniff in disgust. Thankfully, he swallows before speaking. "Yeah, they were like, weirdly insistent about it? I don't know, man. Monica was asking about, uh, floral arrangements, I think? And Dad said something about "kids these days…"."

"Mm," Hermann hums, absentmindedly flicking to the next page. "Well, the only floral arrangements in our life are your quickly-dying cacti." Newt gasps.

"How dare you! I take good care of them!"

There's a moment of silence as they both glance towards the windowsill, where three sad, dejected, and browning cacti wilt forlornly in their pots, and Newt scowls. "Well, _you_ try caring for them, why don't you!"

"I think I shall," Hermann replies. "And I'll do a damn better job than you."

The set of Newt's jaw reads _indignant_ and _stubborn_ , and he says, "Oh, that's how you're gonna play it, huh? Aloof and dark and handsome? Well, two can play that game––you'll see, in a week my plants will be _vibrant_."

"Of course they will," Hermann smiles. Newt narrows his eyes.

The end of the week does not, as Newt had insisted, see his plants as _vibrant_. They're still a bit browned and crisp around the edges, but, by some miracle, they've stopped actively dying. "That absolutely _does_ count!" Newt argues that night, pressed against Hermann's side in the tiny bed. "They are, comparatively speaking, _vibrant_."

Hermann sighs. "They are not, Newton, just accept it. And please, for the love of all things holy, go to sleep." Newt lets out a grumble but settles down slightly, head against Hermann's shoulder.

It feels…comforting, to have the other this close. Hermann tries not to examine the thought too closely.

"I made you a cup of coffee," Newt says. "Figured you could use it after today." The unspoken _I felt your stress_ hangs between them, the remnants of the Drift. It's mostly gone, now, but occasionally, things still slip through.

Hermann accepts the cup gratefully. "Thank you," he says, and Newt nods. They sit, for a moment, Hermann sipping the bitter drink, silence stretching between them, and Hermann thinks, _this is nice_.

"Yeah, it is," Newt mumbles absentmindedly, and Hermann freezes.

"Sorry, what?"

Newt's gaze snaps to his. "You said…oh, crap, you didn't say that out loud, did you?" he asks weakly. "Sorry."

Hermann stares at him for a moment, and thinks, very clearly, _how long?_

"Haha, um," Newt glances around, looking for an escape, but Hermann reaches out, grasping his wrist.

"How long?"

Newt stares at the ground intently. "…since the Drift," he says, guiltily. "I thought you had the same thing?" Hermann fixes him with a glare. "Oh, that's a no. Okay."

" _Yes_ , that's a no, Newton," Hermann hisses, slightly exasperated. "I can't believe you didn't tell me."

"Well what was I supposed to say?" He throws up his free hand. "'Oh Hermann, by the way, I can read your thoughts'? 'Oh, by the way, I think you're pretty too'? What was I supposed to say?"

Hermann pauses. "…what are you talking about?"

Newt blinks, taken aback. "…I can read your thoughts?"

"No, the other one!" Hermann snaps.

"You––what? Oh! Wait, I thought you knew that?" Newt stares at him, wide-eyed. "So you kept brushing off my advances because you…didn't realize I was flirting?"

"No!" Hermann replies hotly.

Newt lets out a huff of laughter. "Dude, I legit call you "honey", "darling", "babe", "handsome", etcetera every day at least once. I even asked you out for coffee!"

"We graded papers!" Hermann shoots back, attempting to defend himself, and Newt rolls his eyes.

"You are _the_ most oblivious person I've ever met," he sighs. "Hermann, will you go on a date, like as in an "I like-like you will you date me?" date with me?"

Hermann glares. "Yes, but don't think for one second you're off the hook about this."

"I'd never," Newt grins.


	27. 27

**if I had to go through Hell and back to save you (of course I would)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt lied to Hermann**

 **(Just not in the way he had thought)"**

* * *

"Hermann! Hey, man, what's up?" Newt yells over the phone, the background noise partly obscuring his voice. "I'm in Tokyo right now––Shao wants me to take a look at the new labs. I tried to call you, but I got voice-mail, so…anyway, I just wanted to say I…you know what, this is stupid. Bye."

The line clicks, and Hermann plays the next one. There's a few seconds of silence, and then, Newt says, "…hi, Herms. I think I'm…I don't know, I––" there's a clattering noise, and Newt hisses, " _shit_. Alice––I gotta go. Say hi to Mako for me––"

The message ends, and Hermann stares off blankly at the wall. His fingers are white against the case, trembling lips pressed into a tight line. By his side, Mako raises a hesitant hand, presses it against his shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

"Are you sure you want to listen to the rest?" she asks softly, and Hermann nods, shakily. He feels like the weight of a Jaeger is crushing him, the breath ripped from his lungs. The messages are from the last week, but something about the next one seems…off. Colder.

"Hermann, my man, I'm just calling to say, uh––hey, you remember that job I got, with, uh, Shao Industries? Well, I mean, how could you forget, since I'm, like, on the news _allllll_ the time," he lets out a laugh. Something's…Hermann can't pinpoint it, but what should be a familiar sound is…alien. Newt continues. "I just wanted to ask if you wanted to meet up? Since I'm probably gonna be coming down for the uh, presentation thingy. You can meet Alice!" He lets out another laugh, this one higher and more cheery. "Call me back, yeah?"

The line clicks dead again, and that's the last of the messages. Hermann's eyes are watery, and he scrubs at them uselessly, shoulders shaking slightly. Mako's hand moves to rub his back. "I…apologize," she says. "For your loss. It…" she hesitates. "When I lost Raleigh, it was like…a part of myself went silent forever. It must be awful, to be separated from Doctor Geiszler like this."

"It is what it is," Hermann croaks, desperately trying to force his voice not to wobble. "And he…I'm happy for him, that he's got a more prestigious position, and he…he sounds happy, with this Alice. I cannot begrudge him for having moved on instead of clinging to the past."

They both know he's lying––he's never been good at concealing things when it comes to Newt.

* * *

After the…incident in his office, with Newt dismissing his research, Hermann tries not to cry. There's something about the way that Newt, once dangerously eager about such things dismissing his research that hurts like nothing else. He swallows it back and says, "We should catch up. There's a new café downtown that looks promising."

He doesn't comment on the other's change in wardrobe; he's not sure what to say, and he doesn't want to think about the way it makes his heart twinge.

A smile curls at Newt's lips. "Yeah, man, that sounds great."

The cafe is––small. The interior is oddly decorated, and reminds Hermann, painfully, of Newt's side of the lab when they worked together, the color-scheme a wild yet somehow fittingly mismatched. He bites back a comment. Somehow, he doesn't think that this Newt will appreciate it.

"So, Hermann," Newt grins at him, swirling his straw in his bubble tea. "What've you been up to lately?"

"Not much," Hermann sighs, "whoever's running the PPDC has decided to relegate me to what is probably the smallest lab in the basement."

Newt's jaw is set, for a second, as if he wants to start shouting, but it's gone so quickly Hermann thinks he must've imagined it. Instead, he says, "That sucks, dude. Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner? Maybe you can finally meet Alice!"

The sudden change of subject throws Hermann for a loop, and he gapes for a moment, before anger sets in. " _No_. Absolutely _not_ ," he snaps. This time, it's Newt's turn to gape at him.

"Whyever not?"

Hermann grits his teeth, tries to stem back tears. "I don't want to talk about this here," he hisses.

Newt frowns at him. "Wh––"

"You said you would _stay with me_ ," Hermann growls, trying to keep his voice down. "You said you loved me, and you wanted to grow old with me, and then you ran off to Shao industries, and next thing I know, you've got a––a girlfriend, or a wife, or whatever––"

"Hermann––"

"No, shut _up_ ," Hermann hisses, anger a sharp undertone. "I _believed_ you, Newton. I put my trust in you, and you betrayed me."

Newt's still, lips pursed, and he says, levelly, "People lie all the time, that's life."

Hermann's teeth hurt from the pressure he's putting on them. With trembling fingers, he reaches under his collar and unclasps the chain around his neck, waves it in front of Newt. At the end dangles a ring, identical to the skull one Newt himself once wore. "I'm through with you," he spits, tosses the chain down on the table, and storms out.

Newt doesn't try to follow him.

* * *

After it all goes down, after they capture Newt––the _Precursors,_ he reminds himself, _not Newt_ ––they give him free reign to Newt's apartment. The entire thing is horrendous––new-age impressionist pieces and high-end alcohol, and it feels unwelcome. Unlived in. As if it's straight out of one of those interior-design magazines.

Hidden in a corner under the bed he finds a box. It's got a papers–– _letters_ , Hermann realizes, throat tight, and a few photos of the two of them. There's one of the two of them, standing in front of a shark exhibit at an aquarium, Newt's arm thrown around Hermann's shoulder, the two of them grinning at the camera.

It's dated a week before Newt's acceptance of Shao's offer. On the back, in shaky handwriting, it reads, _I'm so sorry, Hermann_.

He lets out a silent sob, presses the photo to his chest.

A glint catches his eye, at the bottom of the box; he pulls out the remaining items. At the very bottom of the box is the chain with Hermann's ring on it. And next to it on the chain is it's twin.

Hermann lifts it carefully, reverently from its resting place, and slips it around his neck. Tears sting at his eyes, and he recalls Newt's promise.

 _I'll always be here for you_.

He silently mouths his reply from all those years ago.

 _And I shall be there for you._


	28. 28

**cupid's arrow straight to the heart**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt gets shot in a meeting. Tendo and Mako are less than happy. Enter Hermann Gottlieb, Newt's new bodyguard."**

* * *

The meeting is unbearably boring; something about the Shao's recent drone tech acquisition, which Newt couldn't care less about. However, as the—technical—head of the criminal underground, it's kind of an unspoken rule that he has to show up for these things, no matter how mind-numbingly dull they are—

—and someone's pulled out a gun."Well, this is interesting," Newt mumbles under his breath, perking up slightly. Realistically, it's not going to go anywhere, but one can always—oh, shit. The gun's pointed at him.

He ducks, but it's too late; the bullet is clipping his side, the pain blinding, sand he stumbles back, barely registers the shouts around him, the blood welling up through the wound, and, half-delirious with pain, he thinks, _damn it, I liked that suit—_

His eyes flick open to bright white and the scent of iodine, Tendo's face hovering blurrily at the edge of his vision. He attempts to shift, only to aggravate his side, and hisses a startled, "Fuck, that hurts—" Tendo's by his side within seconds, holding out his glasses and a cup of water, and Newt congratulated himself on having chosen an excellent lieutenant.

"We need to talk," Tendo says, and Newt flops back—as much as he's able—and scowls.

"About what? You caught the dude, right?" he snaps, and feels the energy it takes for the other to repress an eye-roll.

"Yes, of course we caught him," Tendo huffs. "What I mean is, you need a bodyguard."

Newt's scowl deepens. "Why? I've been just fine without one for—oh, what is it, five years?"

The patient expression on Tendo's face does little to mask the murderous intent in his eyes. "Well, you've never been shot before, either," he points out, speaking slowly, as if to a small child. "There's a first time for everything." Newt goes to protest, but whatever drugs he's hopped up on pull him back, and he feels the scowl slip off his face despite his best efforts.

And that's how, three days later, Newt finds himself in his office interviewing applicants. "Isn't there, like, someone else who can do this?" he asks Mako crossly, dismissing yet another applicant.

Mako shrugs. "There was. Alice, remember? You fired her after she tried to sleep with you and tied you to a chair in your closet. You whined about the cost of cleaning the blood off of the ceiling for months."

"Well, she deserved it," he says, darkly, spinning in circles in the office chair. "You see how you like practically getting abducted by your secretary and shoved into a tiny, musty closet. Damn, how many more applicants are there."

"Just me, Mr. Geiszler," a new voice says, and Newt spins around to face the speaker.

He's tall, handsome in a peculiar, angular way, dressed in a light shirt and an olive sweater-vest, and in his right hand is a nondescript cane. He's the sort of person who, no matter what he's wearing or where he is, would know how to fade perfectly into the background. Newt clears his throat, batting aside half-formed thoughts. "Nah, call me Newt, dude, really, no one calls me Mister," he grins.

In his periphery, he sees Mako roll her eyes and mouth something. He's not sure what.

"Gottlieb," the other replies. "I'm here about the position."

They get along swimmingly. That is to say, if it weren't for the contract, Newt's pretty sure Hermann—that's his name, and Newt refuses to call him Gottlieb. What are they, Holmes and Watson?—would have buried one of the many, many knives concealed on his person in his throat.

So, Newt muses, perhaps it isn't the best idea to flirt with him.

Ah, well, he's never been one to listen to common sense—fortune favours the brave, yada yada, but it also favours you if you're a rich crime lord, so. And if Hermann were really as bothered by it as he pretends to be, he'd have resigned by now.

That is, of course, assuming Hermann even realizes he is flirting.

"Flowers?" Hermann questions flatly. "Who for?"

Newt gapes at him. "Uh, you, duh."

"No, who am I supposed to deliver them to?" Hermann snaps irately. Newt resists the urge to bang his head against the desk.

"They're not—oh, you know what, nevemind," he huffs. "Look, I'm going out for dinner and my reservation's in twenty minutes so just…I dunno, toss them or something. I don't care."

Hermann shakes his head, as if he should be the one exasperated, but asks, "Is there a certain dress-code?" Newt shakes his head. "Alright, then, I shall inform Mr. Hansen to fetch the car."

"Maybe you can ask him to fetch you some awareness as well," Newt mutters.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

Dinner is a pleasant way to say "tense negotiations between hostile factions". Shao's minions have been encroaching in his territory—see: Alice—and, as much as Liwen claims ignorance, Newt is sceptical. "You don't just accidentally send one of your top lieutenants into enemy headquarters to try and steal security codes," he complains. "What does she take me for, fresh meat?"

"I should expect so, given you are nearly half a decade younger," Hermann comments drolly. "And your methods, while highly successful, are also extremely unorthodox."

"This is about Chau, isn't it?" Newt accuses. "You're upset I didn't let you off him, so you're just rubbing it in that I'm the youngest."

Hermann shrugs but doesn't counter it. The incident in question is a deal that Newt made with Hannibal Chau early on in his career. Chau, one of the foremost suppliers of Kaiju Blue, a highly addictive, custom drug, decided he wasn't getting enough of a cut in the sales and decided that Newt needed to be taken out.

Hermann cured him of the notion rather quickly and bloodlessly, all things considered. He does, however, still rub a loving thumb over the button that brings a wickedly sharp blade springing forth from the tip of his cane whenever Chau's around.

* * *

Dinner goes…well, surprisingly. _Too_ well.

It sets Hermann on edge. That's the only reason he manages to shove Newton to safety before one of Shao's goons grab him by the neck, lifting him up into the air. His cane clatters to the ground.

"Find Geiszler," Shao orders, eying him coldly. "And dispose of the bodyguard."

"Wait!" Newton shouts, recklessly, and Hermann tries to mouth _shut up and don't give away your location!_ but it's too late. "Let him go! It's me who you want!"

Shao's eyes sweep the area, zeroing in on where Newt's hidden, and she silently gestures to the other henchman. "Come out and hand over the throne or your little…friend here dies," she threatens.

 _Don't do it—_

Of course Newton, naively trusting, begins to shift, unfolding himself from the small space, and in a last-ditch attempt, darkness spotting his vision, Hermann finally manages to unhook one of the blades hidden up his sleeve, ignoring the pain as the steel bites into his palm as it slips out, and rams it, with all his strength, into the henchman's crotch.

He lets out a how of pain, dropping Hermann, and the bodyguard stumbles to his feet, pulls out another knife and, praying to the powers that be that his aim is still at least moderately accurate, flings it at the goon gripping Newt.

He goes down with a yell of pain, but Hermann's more concerned with the way Newt slumps limply to the ground.

He drags himself to the shorter man's side, checking for any injuries, and when he finds none, digs through his pocket, dialling Hansen's number.

"Hello?"

"Car, Mr. Hansen—and bring the first-aid kit."

* * *

When Newt wakes up, Hermann's pacing the room, shoulders stiff with tension. "Hey, handsome," Newt greets, cracking a weak grin. "So, what was it this time—poison, or—"

Hermann's by the side of the bed in to strides, a smouldering scowl on his face. "Don't ever do that again," he hisses, leaning over to lock eyes with Newt, face inches from his own. "You could've died—"

"But I didn't," Newt cuts in. "I didn't die, because you were there."

Hermann rocks back. "I can't guarantee I will be every time."

"Well, I'm glad you care," Newt teases. Hermann stares at him.

"What—of course I care—" he lets out a frustrated huff. "I consider you something of a friend, Newton."

"Be still my beating heart!" Newt cries dramatically. "Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome considers little old me a friend?"

Hermann tugs at his sleeve and says, awkwardly, "I'm—I'm not."

"What?"

"Handsome," he clarifies. "I have no clue where you got the idea—I look…boney."

"You look elegant," Newt scoffs. "And you clean up nicely. Also, I think my meds are gonna knock me out in a minute so, uh, since you didn't seem to get the message, I think you're hot. Will you go out with me?"

Hermann blinks at him for a second before coughing, a ears red. "I—" he flounders for a second. "That would be…enjoyable."

Newt musters up a weak grin and a wink before the meds drag him back under.


	29. 29

**believe**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Post-Uprising, Newt is having hallucinations of Hermann"**

* * *

"You're hurting me."

The words are spoken softly, a sharp contrast to the pain that they belay. Newt shakes his head, tries to dislodge the sound. He knows what he'll see when he opens his eyes; it's what he sees every night.

The image of Hermann, eyes wide and terrified as his hands tighten around his neck is seared into the insides of his eyelids. What little control he had, in that moment, to choke out _They're in my head—_ sapped away within seconds, leaving Newt to be shoved into the deep, dark recesses of his mind by the Precursors.

He knows two things when they finally manage to get rid of the hive-mind:

They ( _he_ ) tried to end the world.

They ( _he_ ) killed Hermann, and thus, ended his own world.

They're surprised when he spends his time staring listlessly at the white, padded walls of the cell, but Newt hasn't the energy to do anything else; he killed Hermann (the Precursors may have tightened the grip, but they were still his hands on Hermann's neck) and thus, a part of him has died as well.

"Please, Newton, darling, let go," comes the voice, again, and he wonders what it'll be this time. Will he open his eyes to find Hermann's head at an unnatural angle, or will there only be bruises to attest to the last time Newt ever touched him?

When he does manage to muster up the energy, he's greeted by Hermann in a dust-specked blazer and sweater-vest, a brace on his neck. He smiles at Newt tentatively. "This is a new one," Newt croaks, voice drained. Stares through the physicist's apparition. "Usually you're more…dead. Hah."

He lets out a dry chuckle, and hallucination-Hermann shoots him a worried look. Really, it's almost funny. "This is…nice, though," he muses. "That my mind's decided to make you…nice. We always used to fight, you know? Before, that is."

Hermann tugs at his arm, and Newt realizes belatedly that he's gripping the other's wrist. _He's dead, just a hallucination, he can't be hurting._ He jerks his hand away anyway.

"Newton?" Hermann questions, raising a hand to his cheek. "Are you—are you quite alright?"

The laugh Newt lets out is borderline hysterical, tinged with a deep, dark pain, and he's doubled over, despite the restraints binding him fairly tightly to the chair. With tears streaming down his face, he supposes he must be a sight to see. "I'm fine, just peachy-keen, sitting here in a straight-jacket talking to my dead frie— _c_ _olleague_ ," he corrects himself. "Colleague. You'd've preferred that, wouldn't you? I mean, the—the professionalism."

"Newton—" the look on the hallucination's face reads _longing_ and _pain_. It's a good impersonation of Hermann, but Newt knows better. (He'd never act like this around Newt.) There's a catch in his voice, almost convincingly real. "Please, Newton, I'm not—"

"You're dead," Newt says hollowly. "You're dead and I killed you and no amount of pretending is going to change a thing. You died because I accepted that offer from Shao, because I let my feelings get in the way of our professional relationship, and I couldn't deal. You're _dead_ , Hermann, and my mind is playing tricks on me."

The slap rings in his ears, the sharp pain flaring on his cheek. Hermann stands in front of him, trembling slightly, one hand clenched around his cane and the other raised. "I'm _not dead_ ," he hisses, venom and hellfire, panting slightly. "You didn't—you didn't _kill me_."

For a second, Newt stares at him, and then he begins to cry in earnest. Great big, shuddering sobs wrack his frame, even restrained at the wrists and ankles as he is. Hermann places a hand on his cheek. "Hush, darling, it's going to be alright," he soothes, drawing closer so that Newt can rest his head on his shoulder, and presses his lips to the crown of Newt's head. "I'm here, Newton. I'm here for you. We're going to get through this, together."

For the first time in years, Newt believes.


	30. 30

**I loved, I loved (I lost)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "In one universe, Shao's shot goes wide.**

 **In this one, her aim is impeccable."**

* * *

In one world, the Precursors overpower Newt, drag him from Hermann's side; Shao's shot is wide, hitting the wall uselessly, and they ( _he_ ) drops Hermann, hightails it. The countdown to the end of the world begins.

In this world, Shao's aim is true. In this world, despite the chokehold, Hermann manages to shove him to the side, the bang of the gun echoing in the suddenly silent room, and Hermann slumps against him, slides to the ground.

His senses refuse to accept it, the Precursors scream _leave him run kill them all_ —but Hermann's on the floor, gasping in pain, red blossoming from his abdomen, soaking the fabric of his ripped blazer, and with a choked cry, Newt drops to his side. "No, no, no, Hermann—Hermann—" the blood is sticky against Newt's fingers as he presses the wound— _stop leave kill them_ —no he must save Hermann— _leave him to die_ —no! "Call an ambulance, please, do something!" he begs Shao.

He leans over, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Hermann! Hermann—" The Precursors are screaming in his mind, but he can't—he can't—

Newt lets out a sob. Hermann whispers something, too faint for him to hear, and Newt leans forward, attempting to catch the words. Hermann's eyes flicker, gaze unfocused, and finally, Newt catches what he's saying, the words barely audible. "—it's alright, Newt, I forgive you. It's going to be alright, love…"

His eyes flutter shut, and Newt cries, " _No!_ Hermann, don't leave, please, just stay with me, please…"


	31. 31

**a death in the family**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Post-almost-apocalypse, an unexpected death leaves Hermann in a state of uncertainty"**

* * *

Hermann's not in the lab when Newt gets there, which is, in and of itself, odd. However, things do come up, even for Hermann, so Newt isn't—terribly—worried. At first.

When noon comes and goes without Hermann materializing to shout at him about proper safety procedures, however, he begins to get antsy. It's not too bad at first, but by the time six o' clock rolls around, he's pacing his side of the lab, too anxious to concentrate on anything.

Finally, when he realizes he's reread the same line of test results for the fourth time and still has no idea what it says, he says fuck it and decides to go find Hermann.

Hermann's not in the mess, or his room, and no one's seen him since the day before. "I'm sure he's fine," Tedo tries to reassure, him, but Newt's mind is racing a thousand miles an hour, spinning up the worst possible scenarios. _What if he's hurt? What if he's been kidnapped? What if—_

"Newt, chill, I'm sure he's fine—," Tendo says, again, seeing his agitation, but Newt's already gone.

There's only one other place Newt can think of—he doubts Hermann is there in this weather, but the memory of Hermann confiding in him, _the stars make me feel…safe_ , urges him on. _Let him be alright_ , he thinks, bites his cheek in trepidation as he climbs the stairs.

The door creaks open on rusted hinges when he tries the handle, opens up to the roof, blanketed in darkness. To one side, the bright neons of Hong Kong shine; to the other, the Pacific stretches out, disappearing over the horizon like a splash of black paint.

"Hermann?" he calls hesitantly, eyes still adjusting to the darkness, but he does catch something shifting. "Hermann, are you up here?"

There's a moment of silence, before he hears Hermann. "What are you doing up here?"

"Hermann," Newt breathes a sigh of relief, making his way towards the dark, parka-wrapped figure. "You're alright."

"Of course I am." Hermann's tone is clipped, but he sounds like he's going to start crying. "I don't need you to be my minder."

"I wasn't—" Newt locks his jaw, sits down next to Hermann. The ground is frigid through his jeans, but he ignores it, locking gazes with Hermann. "I was worried for you, dude."

"Well, you needn't be," Hermann snaps. "I'm fine."

The downturn of his trembling lips says otherwise. "Don't bullshit me, dude. What's wrong?" Newt asks, sets a hand on Hermann's knee.

" _Nothing_ ," Hermann hisses, shoving Newt's hand away, and stumbles to his feet.

"Hey—"

"Please just let me go," Hermann whispers. "Please, Newton, I—"

He's crying, tears running down his cheeks, and he drags a hand harshly over his eyes, breath slightly ragged. Newt stands up, hand awkwardly hovering half-raised. "Hey, man, do you—do you want a hug?"

Hermann doesn't respond verbally, but the way he leans towards Newt is enough. Newt closes the gap between them, wraps his arms around the trembling physicist. "Shh, Herms, it's okay," he comforts. Hermann's grip on his shirt is tight, fists clenched into the fabric, slightly uncomfortable, but Newt can't bring himself to care. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Hermann sniffles, silent, before he finally says, voice choked, "My—my father died yesterday. I only found out about it this morning."

 _Oh_. Lars is…Newt doesn't know much about him, other than that he was, to put it lightly, a shit father, and they had an estranged relationship. Newt, despite never having met him, hates— _hated_ him; Hermann's memories of the man are not pleasant, and, as bad as it sounds, Newt hadn't expected Hermann to be this broken up over his death.

But Hermann continues, unaware of Newt's thoughts. "We were—we were never close, but I—I spent so much of my childhood trying to please him, to gain his approval, and now he's—he's _dead._ " Hermann lets out a choked laugh. "I don't—I don't know how to feel, Newton. He was—" he stops, hides his face in Newt's shoulder. Newt hugs him tighter.

"It's alright," he says simply. "It's alright that you don't know, Hermann, alright? That's fine. You don't have to know now, or—or even ever. But if—if you need me, I'm right here, okay?"

"Thank you," Hermann murmurs.

They stand like that a while longer, Hermann tucked against Newt's chest despite the oversized parka, and Newt lets him cling without comment, knowing that that's what he needs right now.


	32. 32

**just being a decent human (friend)**

 **Rating: T**  
 **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** " **Newt does not take kind to a J-Tech's views of a certain stuck-up physicist."**

* * *

"…yeah, dude thinks he's so smart." Newt doesn't make a habit of eavesdropping in on J-Tech conversations, mostly because he generally doesn't spend much time near J-Techs. But this doesn't really count as eavesdropping, since they're sitting at the table across from his in the mess hall, talking loudly enough that anyone with ears can hear.

"Yeah, stuck up bastard. Just because he's got a PhD, he thinks he's better than us," the other grumbles. Ah, Newt thinks, it must be about him. What he's done to piss of these particular J-Techs, he's got no clue, but it must've been something—" _Doctor Gottlieb_ ," the first continues, in a voice of disgust. "Fuck that cripple, always hanging around the _actual_ genius. Fuck knows what Geiszler sees in him—we'd all be better off without him."

Newt doesn't even register that he's risen until he bumps the table, the tray clattering slightly against the metal surface, fists clenched. "Say that again," he hisses, "I fucking _dare_ you."

The J-Tech glances at him, surprised. "What're you on, Geiszler? The bastard's always insulting you and your work—if anything, you should be agreeing with us."

"Hermann is worth _ten_ of you," Newt snarls. "He's the only reason you're here and not crushed by a kaiju already, so you'd better shut the fuck up with that—"

The two techs exchange a look. "Oh, I get it," pipes the second one. "You think you gotta defend him 'cause he's banging you—" Newt sees red. Within seconds, he's on the tech, fists stinging from their contact with the other's face, his own pain as the much larger man swings at him dimmed by the roar of blood in his ears.

The fight is over in under a minute, onlookers hastening to separate them, and Newt finds himself restrained by a few people. Blood's dripping from his nose and his jaw aches, but he grins jaggedly at the J-Tech, who's lip is split, and thinks, _take that, fucker._

Later, Hermann comes to collect him from the infirmary. "I hope the Marshal's given you a stern talking-to, Newton," he says, but the way his mouth is tight at the edges, the softness of his touch as he tilts Newt's head to inspect the damage belay worry.

Newt smiles, though the action's painful. "Yeah, he sure did, dude, but it was totally worth it."

Hermann raises a brow. "I doubt that there could possibly be a good reason for you to've gotten into a fist-fight with a man twice your size," he says dubiously. Newt shrugs in reply, glad when Hermann leaves it at that.

* * *

"That's what that was?" Hermann asks, four years and one almost-apocalypse later. He's changed out of his grimy clothes, but his eye mirrors Newt's, and they're pressed together in his tiny bunk, Newt's face pressed in the hollow of his neck.

"What was what?" Newt mumbles. "Dude, look, just because we Drifted doesn't mean I can read your mind. You gotta tell me what you mean."

Hermann's fingers card through his hair, and he hums. "That time you got into a physical altercation with that J-Tech—what was his name, Joyce? Ryce?"

"No clue, don't care."

He can practically feel Hermann's eyeroll. "Well, love, that might be why the J-Techs all hold at least one grudge against you—you can't remember their names."

"Hey, it's not as if I really ever talk to them," Newt points out. "But you were saying?"

"You got into a fight with a man twice your size because he insulted me?" Hermann asks, amusement tinging his tone. "You really were head-over-heels for me, weren't you?"

"Still am, man," Newt murmurs. "Really, though, I was just being a decent—friend. Human? Not sure what we were at that point, to be honest."

Hermann goes silent for a moment, fingers stilling, before he says, quietly, "…thank you, Newton. No one—no one's ever done that for me before."

"Well, get used to it," Newt replies, and yawns. "G'night, Hermann."

"Good night, Newton," Hermann murmurs in reply, arms wrapped around him, and Newt drifts off to the sound of his even breaths.


	33. 33

**winter blessings**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **It's very cold outside, as Hermann discovers when Tendo locks him out of the flat. Thankfully, the neighbour is of the amicable sort."**

* * *

Newt's reading—or at least, _attempting to_ —when there's a rap on the door. At first, he assumes it's just the squirrels lobbing acorns at the apartment again, but then it comes again, this time more insistent. Newt bolts out of his chair, yanking the door open to find a lanky man shivering outside his door.

"You're not the pizza-delivery," he accuses.

The man raises a brow. "Er, no. I'm your neighbour? Tendo Choi's roommate, and, well," he pauses, looking vaguely embarrassed, and fiddles with his cane. "Mr. Choi has…company," he says delicately. "And, well, it's rather cold out here, but I haven't got anywhere else to got—"

"Oh, man, yeah, come in, come in," Newt insists, opening the door wider. With a grateful look, the man ducks inside, toeing his shoes off. Newt nods approvingly. "So," he says, "you're Tendo's new roommate, huh?"

"Yes—Hermann Gottlieb," he introduces, shifting to hold out a hand. Newt grins and shakes it.

"Newt," he replies. The name tugs at something at the back of his mind, and he asks, "Wait—Gottlieb, as in Doctor Gottlieb?"

Hermann looks surprised at the recognition. "Yes," he replies cautiously, "that's me."

Newt lets out a squeak. "Oh my god, oh my _god_ why didn't Tendo tell me his new roommate is _the_ Doctor Hermann Gottlieb? I'm a _huge_ fan of your work, dude, absolutely _revolutionary_. Am I dreaming?" He pinches himself and then yelps before grinning even wider. "I'm not dreaming!"

For the entirety of the exchange, Hermann eyes him dubiously. "Really," he says, tone level. "And you are…?"

"Newt—Newton Geiszler." Newt replies. "I, uh, read some of your stuff for my masters in engineering—you're a legend, dude!"

Hermann ducks his head. "You're one to speak, Doctor Geiszler—child prodigy, four doctorates already." There's something like admiration in his voice, and it makes Newt flush. "I—I greatly admire your work," Hermann adds.

"Thanks dude." His voice cracks in the middle, and he hopes Hermann doesn't notice. "Hey—" he's cut off by another knock on the door. "Oh! That must be the pizza," he explains, "hang on a second! I'll be right there!"

He gets back to Hermann standing awkwardly in the living room, as if unsure of what to do. "Sit!" he says, "d'you want a piece? I've got a plain cheese and a vegetarian."

"Yes, please, thank you," Hermann acquiesces, taking a seat on the sofa. "Er—can I perhaps have a plate? Or at least a napkin?"

"Oh! Right!" Newt grins sheepishly. "Sorry, I'm just used to eating straight out of the box."

Hermann wrinkles his nose and mutters something under breath that might be _heathen_. Newt stifles a laugh into his palm and goes into the kitchen for a plate. "You want a fork and knife?" he calls, and Hermann gives an affirmative.

Newt reemerges from the kitchen, a plate and silverware in hand, and hands them to Hermann, popping open the pizza boxes. Hermann delicately retrieves a slice of the vegetarian with his fork, cutting it into small, bite-sized pieces.

Newt picks up a piece with his hands and chows down, watching raptly as Hermann efficiently polishes off his own piece. There's something about the other that's oddly endearing in a way that Newt can't quite place. He grins at the other and mumbles, "So, friends?"

"Chew and swallow before you talk!" Hermann snaps, but he's holding back an answering smile, and a smug happiness is settling in Newt's chest.

"Yeah," he decides, "best friends."

Hermann scoffs, but he's grinning now, and it lights up his whole face, his eyes crinkling at the edges. It makes him look carefree.

It's a good look on him, Newt decides. He wants to make Hermann look like that again.


	34. 34

**the river of time**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt's not dead. Neither is Hermann. That proves to be a bit of an issue."**

* * *

"I _—what?_ " Hermann's pale, eyes wide and still, frozen, staring at Newt. "No that's—that's not possible!"

Newt laughs wanly. "Yeah, I wish," he replies, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "God, I wish."

* * *

They come screaming out of the Drift. It's all overwhelming; Hermann throws up in a discarded toilet, and then they have to rush to warn them that the plan isn't going to work, and somewhere along the line, Newt realises that _he felt Hermann's heart stop in the Drift and never felt it start again_ and thinks, _oh, shit_.

Because he can deal with a lot of things; being buried alive by a frenzied crowd of villagers? Sure, no problem. Kaiju attacking the Earth? Yeah, he's dealt with that like, every Sunday, no sweat.

Having to explain to his lab partner and crush of over a decade that he's basically a zombie? He has no clue.

So, in typical Newt fashion, he doesn't say anything. Hermann's—Hermann _is._ He's been a constant in Newt's life for over a decade, and, as much as it sucked to know that he was going to grow old and die while Newt lived on indefinitely, he'd never wish his curse on anyone.

Except now, Hermann's—Hermann's _got it too_. Newt's not sure how he's going to deal with the realisation once the weight of the situation fully hits him.

 _Badly_ is the answer; he breaks down in the lab, actually, right in front of Hermann. "I'm so sorry," he sobs, "I didn't—I shouldn't've let you Drift with me."

"Newton, what are you _talking_ about?" Hermann asks, bewildered as Newt cries into his chest, tentatively wraps his arms around the shorter man.

"I—you don't understand, Herms, I—" he sniffles. "I'm—I can't die. And now you can't either."

Hermann pulls back and stares at him. "Newton," he says sternly, "don't be silly, that's ridiculous." He frowns. "Are you sure you're okay, Newton? The Drift with Otachi's offspring could what's addled your brain—"

Newt barks a laugh. "No, no. No, it's not—I—fuck," he sighs. "You don't believe me. Okay."

He stumbles back from the physicist, pulling out drawers until he finally finds a scalpel. "Newton—!" Hermann leaps forward, alarm flashing across his face, but the scalpel's already ripped through Newt's skin, blood spraying from the carotid and jugular.

He drops to the floor, black encroaching on his vision, and Hermann falls to the ground by his side, pressing his hands to Newt's neck in a desperate attempt to stem the blood flow in vain.

His face is panicked, and his grip on Newt's neck is desperate. "Newton, no—what have you done?" he cries, and Newt tries to answer, comfort him that it'll be over soon, he'll be fine soon, but—

—he gasps, the black fading away, and his head's in Hermann's lap. "See?" he croaks, "I'm fine."

"I _—what?_ " Hermann's pale, eyes wide and still, frozen, staring at Newt. "No that's—that's not possible!"

Newt laughs wanly. "Yeah, I wish," he replies, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "God, I wish."

Hermann's clothing and his own are both flecked with blood, and Hermann sits silently as he explains it. The curse is no longer only Newt's—it's Hermann's as well. He'll never be able to die. "I'm so, so sorry," Newt says, softly. "If I had known, I—"

Hermann rises abruptly from where he's sitting and storms out. Newt doesn't follow him.

After that, Hermann disappears for a while—Newt doesn't know where he is, but he knows that the other's going to need time to get used to the idea, so he doesn't look.

They meet again in what was Egypt, in 2307; Newt almost misses him in the press of people in the club, but the other's face lights up in recognition, and he claps a hand on Newt's shoulder. "Newton!" he exclaims. "By Jove—what are you doing here?"

Newt squints for a second, before—"Hermann?!"

Hermann laughs. "Yes, dear friend, it's me—I haven't seen you since the—" he cuts himself off. "Ah, well. We both know memories such as that are painful."

"I'm here for the kaiju auction, dude," Newt grins. "Man, peoples' memory is, like, so freaking short. Can you believe they're auctioning four rolls of skin and Otachi's tongue and wing bones as proof of dragons?"

Hermann raises a brow. "Ridiculous," he sniffs. "It's not even been two centuries—surely they have records of the War?"

Newt shrugs. "I dunno, dude, but—hey, we should catch up, yeah? I'm staying at a pretty nice place…"

So maybe he only manages to get the wing bones and one roll of skin, but Hermann's company that night is worth more than any number of kaiju specimens.

They drift apart again, of course—it's natural; they're immortals with all the time in the world on their hands, and a million and one things to do. Newt gets it, and so does Hermann.

So, they meet up occasionally; the world's only so large. This time it's in New Paris, 2481. Newt gets a letter in the mail, postmarked from Berlin with no name. When he opens it, a piece of paper and a dried kaiju scale fall out.

 _Constant Cafe, 3:00; dress in something grey—it brings out your eyes_ , the paper reads when Newt unfolds it, in electric blue, spidery handwriting, followed by a phone number.

 _Fun or business?_ he types, presses send. A second later, another message pops up.

 _Why not both?_

Newt grins.


	35. 35

**romeo and juliet (we are not)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann Gottlieb would be content, if not for his colleague, Newton Geiszler, who insists on scaring the students with ghost stories."**

* * *

Gotham Community College is a dark and imposing building; the architecture is gothic, the walls darkened with decades of dust, and imposing gargoyles crouch on the outside. Rumours have it that, if you don't know where you're going, you'll get trapped in the labyrinthine corridors.

Baseless rubbish, of course—Hermann knows, for a fact, that there are hall monitors that are tasked to guide lost students; it's unlikely, nigh impossible to become trapped within thee school.

"—the ghost of Hermann Gottlieb," Geiszler pauses dramatically. "He was trapped here years and years ago, and sometimes, if you listen really hard—"

Hermann sighs as he catches the tail-end of the conversation. "Doctor Geiszler," he calls sternly, tamping down a smug smile when the other practically jumps out of his skin. "Please, stop telling the students I'm dead. And I've asked you not to refer to me by my first name in front of others. I am a doctor with over ten years of decorated—"

Geiszler cuts him off. "Oh, yes, ten years, I'm so very sorry!" He turns back to the gaggle of students. "Ignore Hermann, he's just a grump."

"Geiszler," Hermann hisses, and the other rolls his eyes.

"Alright, alright," he huffs, "c'mon, guys. See you, _Doc_." He winks and bounds down the hall. Hermann lets out a long-suffering sigh. _Geiszler_ , he thinks derisively. The man is altogether too immature for his position—he wears _ripped jeans_ , for god's sake. Regardless, something about the man draws him in, like the size of his ego has generated its own gravity field.

 _Quite likely, actually_ , Hermann muses internally, lips curling at the corners. It's…charming, if one looks at it from a certain point, he supposes.

* * *

"You are _not_ ," Tendo says, rolling his eyes. Newt pouts.

"C'mon, man," he whines, "we are _totally_ the Romeo and Juliet of the Math and Biology departments."

Tendo takes another bite out of his bagel, and says, as if explaining to a small child that the sky is, indeed, blue, "Newt, he _hates_ you. And you hate _him_."

"That's what you _think_ ," Newt shoots back, wagging his finger at the IT professor. "You'll see—I'm gonna have him swooning at my feet by the end of the year."

Tendo's sigh is only half-hearted. "Didn't Romeo and Juliet _die?_ " he questions, "I mean, not to put a damper in your fun, dude, but, uh…"

"What—? No!" Newt exclaims. "Look, we're Romeo and Juliet, minus the dying."

"Then it's not Romeo and Juliet, is it?" Tendo points out. Newt frowns at him and turns away from him.

"Whatever, dude," he huffs. "You'll see—I'm gonna woo him so damn good."

See, the thing is.

The thing is.

Newt's got…well, he's got a _crush_ on Hermann. Big time. And, well. He kind of wants to impress the guy.

So he does some research on courting.

"Well," he announces to the empty room, "this is fucking useless. Who the hell establishes rules like "the courter cannot remain alone with the object of the courting for any period of time"? What the hell."

So he scraps that and goes with Plan B.

Plan B is…cheesy. Cliched.

* * *

"What are these?" Hermann asks flatly, eying Newt like he's contagious.

"Flowers, dude!" Newt beams, shoving them at the mathematician. "For you!"

Hermann frowns. "Whatever for?"

Newt resists the urge to bang his head against the wall. "For. You. From. Me," he says, slowly. "As in, I'm asking you out. As in, for a date."

Hermann blinks at him rapidly. "…what."

"Well?" Newt asks, getting impatient. "Yes, no, maybe? Or, even "go to hell"? I need an answer, dude."

Hermann's silent for a moment, before he says, "Flowers are a cheap method of seduction, Newton. You're going to have to try harder than that." Then he strides away.

Newt grins and punches the air the moment he's out of earshot. _He called me Newton!_ he cheers internally.

Aloud, he says, "You're on, dude. I'm gonna impress the _fuck_ outta you."


	36. 36

**mistaken identities**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** ** **"**** **They meet years before; Hermann just doesn't realise that the vibrant man who bumped into him and mistook him for a celebrity was, well,** ** _that_** **Newton."**

* * *

"Oh my god," babbles the man who's just run into him, eyes wide. "Oh my god, dude, you're—you're the dude who played Owen Harper!"

Hermann blinks, confused. "Sorry, I don't—"

But the man's already talking over him, bouncing on his heels, and Hermann can't get a word in edgewise. Finally, he says, practically wheezing at this point—Hermann's not sure if he's taken a breath in the entire two or so minutes—, "Can I get an autograph?"

"I'm not—whoever you think I am," Herman interrupts. "Exactly who do you think I am?"

The man raises a brow. "Mr. Gorman? Burn Gorman?"

Hermann shakes his head. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid you've got me confused with someone else, Mr….?"

"Geiszler," the other provides. "Newton Geiszler—call me Newt, only my mom calls me Geiszler," he adds. "And I'm—I'm really sorry, dude, you just look, like, scary similar to him. You're not related by any chance, are you?"

"No, I'm afraid not, Mr. Geiszler," he replies. "As a matter of fact, I have no clue who you're talking about."

The other looks quite sheepish, apologising repeatedly before disappearing back into the crowd of people. Hermann frowns, contemplatively. What an odd man.

Oh well; he has places to go. Best not to dwell.

A few years later, he recieves a letter from a leading kaiju-biologist. The name rings familiar, somehow, but he shrugs it off. It doesn't occur to him where the name seems familiar from until almost five years after their first correspondence.

They're both in Anchorage, assigned to the Shatterdome there; Hermann, for his part, is barely able to contain his excitement at the fact that he's going to finally be meeting Newton in person. Dietrich and Karla tease him about it when he mentions it, accidentally, during a video-call, making Hermann blush scarlet.

But whatever he's expecting, it's not— _this_.

Because he _recognizes_ this man. It's the man who practically knocked him over on a crowded street in Berlin, eight years ago, and mistook him for some actor.

"…Hermann?" Newton questions, shock on his face. "Wait—I know you…oh. Oh!"

Hermann glares at him. "Yes, _astute_ observation, _Newton_."

"Hey!" the biologist protests, "it's hardly my fault you look just like him!"

"Save it," Hermann huffs, shoving past him.

It's hate at first sight, obviously; that's the only thing it could possibly be.

So they come stumbling out of the Drift five years later, and Hermann throws up in a toilet. It's not his most dignified moment. His head feels like it's going to explode, and he keeps expecting to see things through six, eight, ten eyes.

Newton— _call me Newt_ —kindly provides him with a handkerchief and they help cancel the apocalypse.

"You thought it was hate at first sight?" Newt murmurs as they stumble down the hall, away from the festivities; his jacket's torn, blood dried above his lip. His grip on Hermann is tight.

Hermann frowns. "I _did not_ ," he objects. "I simply thought it was an…intense dislike."

"Why?" Newt asks, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. In the dark, Hermann can't quite tell, but he suspects that the other's pupils are blown wide.

"I thought you were mocking me, originally," Hermann admits, leaning just as heavily on Newt as he is on his cane. "People do not generally tend to pay me genuine compliments."

Newt hums, and Hermann rests his head against the other's shoulder. "Well, you're gonna get used to is," Newt promises. "'cause you deserve all the compliments in the world, Herms."

"Oh, do quit it with that nickname," Hermann says, but it's half hearted and they both know it.


	37. 37

**wish upon a [wish]**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:"** **Hermann's a djinn bound to give three wishes to anyone who releases him from his prison; Newton is...well,** ** _dallying_** **on using them."**

* * *

"Wow this is a really nice lamp, dude," are the first words Hermann hears in over a hundred years. He's not that old, as far as djinn go, but he's been getting a bit antsy having been trapped in the confined space of the lamp for so long.

He even does the full nine yards; smoke and lightning and sound-effects—or at least he tries to. Instead, he finds himself in human form standing in front of his summoner, who looks highly unimpressed. "Really?" he complains, "I spend half my life looking for a gen _uine_ magic lamp and I can't even get a puff of smoke? Lazy."

"Djinn lamp," Hermann corrects. "And I'd like to see _you_ try and be intimidating when you haven't eaten since 1902."

The man laughs. "Ooh, sassy, I like it, dude. M'name's Newt, by the way."

Hermann raises a brow. "Newt? And I thought the _Norse_ were bad…anyway, what're your three wishes?"

Newt blinks. "Uh, actually, I don't know."

Hermann sighs. "What do you _mean_ you don't know?" he demands. "No endless treasures, no convoluted plots of revenge, nothing?" Newt shakes his head, and Hermann groans. "Of all of the humans to be bound to," he gripes, "of course I get one who doesn't have a single wish in the world."

"We could always go eat something," Newt suggests, and Hermann brightens.

"Is that a wish?" he asks hopefully, and Newt frowns at him.

"What—no, dude, I'm asking if you want to have lunch," he says, shaking his head. "You mentioned you hadn't eaten since 1902, which, uh, does _not_ sound fun."

Hermann frowns. "No," he agrees, cautiously, "it really isn't."

Newt brightens. "Okay!" he exclaims, clapping his hands together, "let's go eat something, dude!"

The food is…very different from what Hermann's used to. He doesn't actually _need_ to eat, technically, given that he's actually a minor spirit, but he does enjoy it, the same way he enjoys reliving the sensation of sleeping; both are things that he clings to, markers of his first life as a mortal.

Newt watches him with wide-eyed fascination as he eats. "Dude," he says, "you know you don't eat a hamburger with a knife and fork, yeah? Or—wait, were hamburgers a thing in 1902?"

Hermann delicately spears another piece. "No—but I have eaten something similar before; I believe it was called a…" he furrows a brow, trying to recall, and says, "ah, yes. Rundstük."

Newt hums. "Right."

"So," Hermann says, "are you going to make a wish?"

"Nah," Newt shrugs. "I gotta think about it for a bit longer."

Hermann sighs. "Fine. But I would like to get this over as quickly as possible. Being free is a luxury I haven't had in a hundred years."

Newt says nothing, but there's an odd look on his face.

Three weeks later, and Newt still hasn't used any of his wishes. Hermann, bound by the curse, has been forced to remain within a three-mile radius of the man. Newton, in a moment of compassion, offered to allow him to stay with him.

Though the other's indecision is a bit annoying, Hermann discovers that he's quite interesting, so it's not _horrible_.

"Alright," Newt announces, "I've got it."

"Finally," Hermann mutters. "It took you long enough."

Newt ignores him, clears his throat. "My wish is for you to be free of the curse, and that no one ever be able to force you to grant them wishes."

There's a popping feeling in Hermann's chest, and he gapes at the other. "You—you—" he stammers, speechless. Finally, he says, desperately, "Why? Why not use your wishes?"

Newt shrugs. "I…I wasn't actually really interested in the whole thing," he admits. "I, um. I was trying to discover a genuine magical being, but, um, beyond that…" He shrugs. "And I figured, hey, you seem cool, might as well use the power for _something_ good. You can go now—you're free, like you wanted."

Hermann stares at him. "What—?"

"Go on, you can finally be free of me," Newt says, gesturing to the door. "You're not obligated to stay any more."

Without thinking, Hermann blurts, "But what if I _want_ to stay?"

Newt blinks, stunned. "I—you—what?"

"What. If. I. Want. To. Stay?" Hermann repeats. "I've…grown to enjoy your company, Newton," he says, staring intently at a spot on the wall.

Newt draws in a sharp breath. "…okay," he says, weakly. "Yeah. Um. Yeah, that's—that's great!" He shoots Hermann a toothy grin. "Yeah!"

Unable to stop himself, Hermann smiles back.


	38. 38

**snakes and other terrifying things**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt asks Hermann to check on his pet. He fails to mention what kind of pet she is."**

* * *

" _Please_?" Newt begs him, voice thin and reedy. The connection is poor, despite the phone display showing three bars; Hermann should probably be used to that at this point, but.

He sighs. He can practically see the pleading expression on the other's face, visualise the slight tremble of his lip, the widening of his eyes. Damn it. He caves. "Fine," he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can check in on… _Frankenstein_ every other day while you're gone."

The change in tone is instantaneous. "Thanks, man, really," Newt says, the relief palpable, and Hermann imagines the slump of his shoulders, the tenseness leaving his muscles as he breathes a sigh. "I'll pay you back, dude, I swear—you're a life-saver, Herms—" there's a scuffle, before the connection re-establishes itself. " _Crap_ ," Newt hisses. "Look, dude, I gotta go—"

The line cuts off, leaving Hermann with a question dying on his lips. With a sigh, he turns the phone off and returns to his notes. According to Newt, Frankenstein only needs to be fed once every few days, and he'll be back before then. Hermann wonders what sort of pet the other has that it only needs to be fed every few days and can be kept in the Shatterdome.

Probably a plant of some sort; he seems the type.

It's not a plant, as Hermann discovers with a nasty shock two days later.

It's a four-foot-long ball-python.

"Newton!" Hermann barks into the phone, edging away from the snake flicking its tongue out to scent the air, and lets out a tiny yelp when it slithers marginally closer. "You—you! You didn't tell me it was a snake!"

"She," Newt corrects placidly. "Her name's Frankenstein. She's a sweetie, Herms, I swear—the mice are in the freezer, in case she gets hungry, but only give her one, okay, dude?"

Hermann sputters, trying to draw together a coherent sentence. "Newton—you—I can't believe—you—" The snake slithers closer, and Hermann drops the phone in fright. There's a staticky laugh, and Hermann glares at the phone, snatching it up off of the ground. "We'll be having words about this," he promises, and ends the call.

Frankenstein slithers closer, and, backed against the wall, Hermann gives into his fate.

* * *

Newt practically sprints to Hermann's quarters when he gets back. Thousands of possibilities run through his mind—what if Hermann died of fear? Or what is he scared Frankenstein to death? Or—

He slams the door open, a shout on his lips, but it dies instantly at the scene before him.

Hermann's sitting in his chair, a book in hand, Frankenstein's black and green scales glinting slightly under the light of the lamp, curled over Hermann's shoulders.

"…Hermann?" Newt asks, tentatively, and Hermann closes the book and turns to face him.

"Newton," he greets.

Newt lets out a nervous laugh. "So—so I see you guys are getting along just fine. I, uh, I can just take her and—"

"Sit," Hermann says, an unsettling smile on his face, and Newt suddenly understands what it feels like to be a bug under the scrutinising lense of a microscope.

He gulps and sinks into the other chair, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him. "So," Hermann says pleasantly, "what, exactly, where you thinking when you decided to run off to a kaiju auction halfway across the world and leave me to care for your pet without forewarning that she was a snake?"

"Um," Newt pauses and clears his throat, growing increasingly more twitchy under the weight of Hermann's gaze. "I—I don't—sorry," he stammers. "I mean, um. Sorry. For not telling you? It—"

"Slipped your mind?" Hermann fills in, still frighteningly calm and pleasant.

The room feels stifling, and, finally, Newt blurts, "I'm sorry, okay, can—can you just, like, yell at me or something? Just—just stop being so…"

The pleasant expression drops from Hermann's face, all of a sudden, and Newt breathes a sigh of relief. "Apology accepted," Hermann says, "but if a similar incident occurs, I shall be nice for a week."

Newt shudders. "Gotcha," he says weakly. Hermann smiles smugly.


	39. 39

**how to get kicked out of class, step one: argue about cannibalism**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann and Newt's arguments finally get them kicked out of class; doesn't mean they can't argue out if class."**

* * *

"— _absolutely not!_ " Hermann yells, glaring daggers at him, knuckles white on his cane, which he's gripping tightly, despite sitting down. "Geißler, that—"

"Out," interrupts Mr. Hansen, in a tone that he only takes when he is at the end of his rope. "Mr. Gottlieb, Mr. Geißler, you may rejoin us _when_ you are ready to stop disrupting my _class_." The pointed look at Hermann makes him flush.

Newton at least has the decency to look shame-faced as he vacates his seat, following Hermann out of the room, silent. For a moment, Hermann thinks that he's finally shut up, but the assumption proves to be untrue, as he says, "Okay, but I'm _right—_ I mean, technically speaking."

Hermann feels his lip twitch. "Really?" he asks, "you're attempting to continue this conversation—this _argument—_ even after you got us sent out of the room for it?"

Newton scowls at him darkly. "Well, if you _recall_ ," he says, peevishly, " _you_ started shouting first, so really, it's all your fault, really, _Hermann_." Hermann purses his lips.

"Don't _call_ me that," he snaps, and the other rolls his eyes.

"Well, what _else_ am I meant to call you, dude? It's your given name," he complains, spreading his hands and affecting an innocent look. "It could be worse, really—I could be calling you, uh… _Herms_ or something, so be glad."

"Oh yes, I am _so_ grateful," Hermann says, deadpan.

The other's scowl grows. "You could've just accepted that I was right and saved us this mess," he whines, fingers already fidgeting with the hem of his shirt despite the fact that they've only been in the hall for two, maybe three minutes.

Hermann sighs. "Your argument is ridiculous," he points out. "Obviously, as part of the animal kingdom, human flesh constitutes as meat."

"Yeah, maybe _biologically_ , but _philosophically—_ " Newton's gesticulating wildly again—"humans are _different_ from animals, at least in the social consciousness."

"Since when have you paid _that_ any mind?" Hermann shoots back.

The other drags a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated huff. "You—why am I arguing with you about this? You're wrong. So just—just _sit there_ in your _wrongness_ and be _wrong_."

Hermann raises a brow. "That sounds suspiciously like admitting defeat… _Newton_."

(They _aren't_ allowed back into class)

(On the upside, though, Hermann learns that the other is quite adorable when flustered)

(However, the fact that the conversation is about whether or not a cannibalistic diet, without the consumption of animal meats, constitutes as vegetarianism, does not fail to make a few of their classmates skittish around them for a while afterwards)


	40. 40

**fortunate accidents**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt gets in an automotive accident; the other party, it just so happens, is one Hermann Gottlieb, Newt's long-time pen-pal."**

* * *

The bright white of LED strips is nearly blinding, and Newt has to blink a few times. Everything is unfocused, and when he reaches for the bedside table to grab his glasses, his fingers don't make contact with anything. He reels for a moment, unable to process the input; he's in bed, in a room, but not—

—not _his bed._ Is it? Why?

There's a rasping sound, heavy cloth on cloth, a sort of dusty scraping, and someone clears their throat. Newt squints. "Whoever you are," he says. Pauses, startled at the hoarseness of his own voice. Starts again. "Whoever you are, can you, um, hand me my glasses?"

The person—a vague, dark, fuzzy figure in his periphery, draws in a startled breath. "Yes, I—" he flounders for a moment. "Yes, I…I can. Ah, here." The figure shifts closer, enough that Newt can reach the glasses without straining when he extends an arm.

The glasses slip down the bridge of his nose slightly, a familiar comfort, and, out of habit, he shoves them back up before wincing at the pain the motion elicits.

Finally, he turns to the other, observing him for the first time, the world in sharp focus. He's tall, taller than Newt, but slim and poised, dressed in clothing that looks like it belongs to an Oxford professor from the nineteenth century. Newt's eyes slip to the cane in his hand, and he says, after a moment of silence, "Um, do you want to sit down?"

The man bristles, tone sharp as he snaps, " _No_ , I'm _perfectly capable_ —"

"Dude, chill," Newt raises his hands in surrender, "I was just being polite. Jeez."

The other's expression smoothes over a bit, apparently satisfied with Newt's words.

Newt runs his tongue over his teeth, wondering at the cottony feeling in his mouth. "…we're in a hospital, right?" he finally asks, and the other nods.

There's something in his expression, something like guilt, and he says, softly, "I—we were in an accident and…well, I'm afraid that your car did _not_ come out of it in as good a condition as mine did."

Newt ponders the words in silence for a moment. "Oh."

A tight, pained smile flits across the other's face. "Yes. I am terribly sorry—"

"It's fine, dude, it happens to the best of us," Newt reassures. "But that doesn't explain why _you're_ here."

"I—" the other pauses. "Well, I thought that I should apologise."

Newt hums. "Well, dude, thanks."

There's another silence, and Newt instinctively fidgets with the bedsheet in an attempt to calm himself. He wonders, briefly, what Hermann will say when he finds out about this; probably scold him for not watching the road, worry buried under it all.

"I—they didn't tell me your name," the other blurts, breaking the quiet, and Newt drops the edge of the bedsheet, startled. "Oh, I—I hope I'm not being presumptuous," he stammers, fingers playing with the head of his cane, "I simply—"

"No, _dude_ , it's _fine_ ," Newt placates, but the other looks unconvinced. "If it makes feel better about it, how about I tell you mine and you tell me yours," Newt proposes. For a second, something like— _apprehension_ flashes through the other's eyes, before he sighs.

"Alright," he says, "yes, that—I'm amenable to that."

" _Sweet!_ " Newt exclaims, grinning. "I'm Newt."

"Surely that isn't your given name," the other scoffs, a flicker of something unidentifiable across his face, gone as soon as it's there; a trick of the light.

Newt's grin morphs into a crooked smile. "Nah," he admits, "'s short for Newton."

" _Newton?_ " the other asks, suddenly pale, " _Newton?_ "

Newt blinks, taken aback. "Yeah, dude, that's my name; don't wear it out," he jokes. "Why, did I do something?"

The other shakes his head, but he's gone so pale Newt's afraid he's going to faint, but, thankfully, he slumps down into the chair by the bedside. " _Newton_ ," he repeats, and lets out a helpless laugh. "Of course, it's just my luck—"

Newt's mind is…well, _confused_ would be putting it lightly. It's giving him a headache. " _Dude_ ," he huffs, "can you just what the hell has got you worked up?" The other's beginning to worry him, and he says, "Maybe you should eat something, or drink some juice—could be low sugar; your _really_ don't look good, dude."

The other shakes his head. "No, no, it's not—" he stops, biting his lip in a motion Newt suspects he doesn't even realise he's doing. "Of all the people I could get into an accident with, of course, of _course it's you_."

He looks at a loss, and so, so small, and despite being a complete stranger, Newt has the urge to reach out and hug him. He lets out a rattling sigh. "Newt— _Newton_. We know each other."

"Uh, I don't think so," Newt shoots back, "I mean, I think I'd remember someone as pretty as you."

"I'm not— _pretty_ ," the other snaps, before realising he's getting off topic. "That's not—oh, blast it," he mutters. "Newton, we _do_ know each other. My name is Hermann Gottlieb."

Newt's brain does something close to short-circuiting as it attempts to process the information, and he lets out a weak noise. "…oh," he says lamely, then, again, "oh."

"Yes," Hermann— _Hermann,_ it's actually him, _in the flesh_ —agrees. "Indeed."

"Well, this is…awkward," Newt laughs, slightly manic. "Um. Shoot. I don't know what to say, dude. Except, like, thanks for coming to see me, I guess?"

Hermann scowls. "Don't— _joke_ about this," he snaps, "you could've _died_ , Newton."

His eyes are glassy, and he pulls off his glasses, dragging a hand roughly over them. "You could've _died_ and then where would we be?"

"But I _didn't_ ," Newt points out. "Look, dude, think about it like this—this is kinda lucky, I mean, all things considered, since we finally got to meet."

Hermann's mouth is still a tight line, but the lines are softening. "Oh, I suppose you're right," he says, slightly wetly. "Though this isn't how I had imagined our first meeting to go."

Newt shrugs, as much as he's able. "Yeah, well, life be like that sometimes," he says. "Just out of curiosity, how _did_ you imagine it going?"

"Oh, well," Hermann says, gaze fixed on the floor, and Newt gets the distinct impression that he's— _shy_. "Well," he says, again, "perhaps a nice coffee-shop; we would get a bite to eat together and _talk_ …"

"Dude," Newt says, because he has to say _something_ , because if Hermann's saying what he _thinks_ he's saying—"dude. Like, a date?"

Hermann flushes, ears turning a bright red. "Well—"

"—cause, like, that sounds _awesome_ , man," Newt barrels on, praying that he's not wrong. "Like. Same. Um. To the dating. I mean." Oh damn it, he's getting tongue-tied.

Thankfully, Hermann seems to understand what he's saying, head snapping up to meet Newt's gaze, and draws in a sharp breath. "Er," he says, "…would you…still be amenable to that? To, um, a—date? Once you're discharged," he hurries to add.

" _Dude_ ," Newt says, grinning like a loon, "yeah. Yeah, that sounds— _neat_."


	41. 41

**the case of the missing welcome mat**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "the culprit isn't who Newt expected."**

* * *

The problem is.

Well.

See, the problem is. Newt's doormat is nice. It's one of those cool ones that's white and then turns blood red where it gets wet, and, well, he likes it, okay? He likes it a lot, actually.

So.

So, so.

Well, someone's stealing it. Obviously. Because it was there just this morning, but when he got back, it wasn't. He glares at the empty space in front of his door where it usually lays, and decides, fuck it, he can't deal with this right now, and storms inside the fly, slams the door behind him.

He grades papers with his earbuds jammed in, an 8D audio of something loud vibrating in his skull. Then, through the din, he hears someone pounding on the door. With a huff, he drags himself up to go see who it is.

"What," he snaps, before the door is open. And then kind of regrets snapping, because the dude is really, unfairly pretty, pale skin contrasting sharply with his jet-black jacket, vest, and cane. Oh well, too late to turn back now. "I'm trying to grade papers."

The other man sniffs. "Well, would it kill you to turn down you music?" he questions, glaring slightly. "Because it is very disruptive."

"It just might," Newt says, darkly, and slams the door shut.

Utter asshat. He had his earbuds in—

—but not, apparently, plugged in.

Oh.

Whoops.

So he plugs them in—properly—and finishes grading the papers, all thoughts of goth-dude gone from his mind.

The next morning, his doormat is back, placed just as it was before, as if it's been there the whole night. Newt scowls at it, furious. "Seriously?" he says, kicking at it. "What the fuck."

The door across from his opens, and goth-dude appears, glare affixed firmly on Newt. "Language," he snaps, and disappears back into his own flat, leaving Newt—

—well, leaving him something, that's for sure.

The doormat stays, as it should, in front of his door, for the rest of the month, and part of the next. But halfway through February, it's gone again. It's also about then that Newt learns goth-dude a.) has both a septum and ear piercing and b.) works at the same college as Newt does, as an applied physics professor.

Which, actually, would explain why they never crossed paths.

"Newton Geiszler, PhD!" he yells after another argument in the hallway. "Can I get a name?"

He's met with the resounding sound of the other's door slamming shut.

The doormat turns up the very next morning, and Newt resolves to catch the thief, because, first off, who the fuck steals a doormat, and secondly,fuck whoever it is, they're stealing his doormat.

Except the moment he sets up any kind of trap, mystery doormat-thief…manages to get past it. Every. Single. Goddamn. One. What the hell.

"What the hell," he says, staring at the empty square in front of his door, then glares at the—now disabled—trap, and says, again, more emphatically, "what the hell."

So, apparently, this is a thing, then. Because Newt can't catch this person, and the person isn't…well, isn't really stealing, technically, just borrowing, his doormat, he—well, he doesn't give up. They're just getting better at evading his traps.

So when he walks in on goth-dude, crouching in front of his door, cane laying carefully on the floor by his side fter coming in from a midnight walk, well—he does a double-take. "You," he says, agaog, then, again, "you! It was you!"

"Er," says goth-dude-slash-doormat-thief, "you'll have to specify."

"You've been stealing my doormat!" Newt accuses, and the other lets out a huff.

"I've been washing it," he corrects, "you let it get absolutely filthy, Newt."

Newt sputters. "What—who the hell washes others' doormats?" he demands, "and also, how do you know my name?"

Goth-dude blinks at him. "Wait a minute," he says, "do you—do you truly not know?"

"Know what," Newt snaps.

Goth-dude has the gall to begin laughing. "Oh dear," he chokes out, "I cannot—I simply cannot believe—Newton. Newton, I'm Hermann. Hermann Gottlieb."

Newt stares at him, flabbergasted. "What—dude—you—?" he sputters, "but—"

"I had thought you'd have figured it out by now," Hermann—Hermann—says, amusement leaking into his tone, "given the various hints I dropped via email and text."

"Then why didn't you say anything when you realized I was living next-door?" Newt demands hotly, and Hermann's gaze slips to the floor.

"I was…shy," he admits, like it pains him. "I—well, I didn't want to finally meet you, and for it to turn out a horrible disaster, and, well, you're significantly more good-looking than I had anticipated."

"Oh," Newt says, unable to say much else. And then, "Do you wanna come inside and eat some ice cream? As, like, a practice-date?" he blurts, "just to, like, practice for the actual thing?"

Hermann's gaze snaps to his, and a grin splits his face. "Just so you know know, though," he warns, "I'm not going to stop stealing your doormat."

Newt laughs. "And I wouldn't expect you to."


	42. 42

**comfort food**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Hermann is sick."**

* * *

Hermann's wrapped in three layers and still shivering, occasionally pulling out a tissue from the packet in his pocket to wipe at his running nose. The fluorescent lighting in the store is making his eyes burn, and he pushes the ridiculous sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose from where they've slipped.

The aisle is full of sweetmeats and achingly carefully decorated cakes, protected by their translucent covers, but he ignores them all, searching the shelves until he finally finds it.

As he reaches for the box, though, someone ducks in front of him and grabs it off the shelf.

Hermann blinks. "…please give it back," he says, hoarsely, and the other man glares at him, clutching the box to his chest.

" _No_ ," he says, stubbornly, "I grabbed it fair and square. Hands _off,_ dude." Something about his voice is familiar, but Hermann, half-high on cough syrup, can't place it.

"Please," he says, pathetically.

" _No_ ," the other repeats.

Hermann lets out a rattling sigh. "I _will_ tackle you," he warns.

The other scoffs. "What, and give yourself a concussion? You weigh _maaaaaybe_ a hundred fifty pounds, dude, I think I'll be fine."

Hermann's dead-tired and sick, barely able to hold himself up even with the use of his cane, so he shuffles over to the other and—well, _falls_ on him, for lack of a better term, slumping onto the shorter man. The other squawks, flailing to try and not overbalance.

" _Dude_ ," he hisses, "what the _fuck_."

"'m sick," Hermann murmurs, "give me the pie, please, or I'll knock us both over."

He can't see the other's expression, but he imagines it's a mix between shock, anger, and confusion. "But it's the _last_ cheescake," he whines, "please, dude, I just got done grading finals. Gramercy, man."

" _Gramercy?_ " Hermann mutters, "you're in the wrong century."

The other lets out what seems to be a delighted bark of laughter. "Dude, you got it? Woah," he says, "hey—the pie's enough for the both of us."

Hermann briefly debates the dilemma. They're obviously both too stubborn to concede to the other—even if _he_ was the one reaching for it first, so _he_ deserves it—and then says, "Alright."

"Just like that? Dude, for all you know, I could be a serial killer!"

"I highly doubt that," Hermann retorts, "and even if that were the case, at this point, death would be preferable to this misery."

The man pats his shoulder and then pushes him away, but he watches Hermann, making sure the other's got a decent grip on the cane. "Alright," he says, "that's just pathetic, dude. We're gonna share it."

Hermann doesn't say anything, heading for the cashier's, walking as steadily as he can. They have a brief tiff over who's going to pay, but the other—Newt—eventually wins by shoving his card into the card reader and typing in his pin. "You're _sick_ ," he says, batting aside Hermann's hand.

They only live a few blocks apart, so Hermann just invites him into the flat, and they sit on the couch and eat cheesecake out of the box, Hermann half-buried under a pile of blankets.


	43. 43

**interlude**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt's experience when they Drift."**

* * *

blue—

blue blue blue blue blue he's surrounded by blue it's seeping _into_ his skin under his skin it _is_ his skin but it's not _his_ skin—

eyes his vision is doubling tripling everything's a shade of electric white-blue—

 _Stop_ he screams with a voice that vibrates the very fabric of existence _stop I can't—_

I who is he what is he where—

flashes memories of them him it we us me I one many all—

 _Hermann_ —

"—Hermann!" he shouts, and it all—

stops. Turns from electric, white-hot, burning blue to black; the void. Space: infinite and empty but still so full. Dark.

He hold out a hand. In the black, he can't see anything, but he senses the limb, feels the movement of it, the matter it displaces to get there. "Anyone?" he calls, voice silent in the—

 _Drift_.

—is harmony, symbiosis; the melding of the minds, _but_ —

"Hermann?" he calls again, the comforting blackness suddenly frightening. "Hermann, where are you?"

Because he was there, just a second ago, he was with Newt, he was Newt, they were one, but now he's—

 _alone_.

"Why?" he asks, shrinking in on himself. "Why am I—why am I alone?"

 _when are you not?_

It's a sound that's not a sound—a thought he feels in the very fibres of his being. It dwarfs him.

 _when are you not?_

"I—that's not true—" he protests weakly, "I—no, that's not—that's _not_ —"

 _so, then, when are you not?_

Words fail him; his mind screeches to a halt, unable to answer the question. He swallows. "Hermann—"

 _you are_

 _alone_

"I—I'm alone," he breathes. "I'm all _alone_." The realisation of that is sluggish, like a viscous liquid slowly transferring from one container to another. He's alone, surrounded only by the void and his own thoughts.

"That's— _impossible_." But he knows it's true—there's nothing in existence except for him. All around him, the heavy presence of nothingness presses against all of his senses, blinding and choking and smothering—

"…I'm dead." It's the only explanation, but if he's dead, then—then—

He drags in a gasping, panicked breath. "I can't be dead—where's Hermann? Where's _Hermann_ —"

The blackness bends and twists, dragging him along with the rushing current.

 _you're—_

 _—not_

 _dead—_

 _—you're not dead, newton. come home_

He jolts out of the Drift, shuddering, blood dripping from his nose. Hermann throws up in a discarded toilet and Newt gives him the handkerchief he most certainly didn't steal from a certain physicist.

They rush into the helicopter, the wind whipping through their hair, stinging their cheeks, and Hermann's hand creeps into his. Quietly, almost too quiet to be heard over the roar of the chopper's blades, Newt asks, "Was it you?"

"Was what me?"

"Something—I was caught in the Drift," he swallows, rememberers the pressing darkness. "I was—in space. Alone. And then I heard—"

"You're not dead, Newton. Come home," the other finishes, looking surprised. "Oh. I suppose it was me, then."

Newt grips his hand tightly. "Thank you," he says, and the smile Hermann gives him is small, tired, bloody; genuine.


	44. 44

**ein B** **är**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Hermann, inexperienced with camping, winds up getting left behind by the group who drag him along. Thankfully, the first door he knocks on is answered by an amicable man."**

* * *

"Excuse me—" The man's out of breath, practically wheezing as he clutches his cane. "Excuse me, I—I think I just heard a _bear_." His voice rises at the end, and Newt realises that he must've been running.

"Dude, _what?_ " he exclaims, "oh man, that's awesome—that's so awesome!"

The other doesn't look reassured, so Newt backtracks. "Uh—or awful, I mean," he scratches the back of his neck. "Depends on how you look at it, I guess."

"How— _comforting_ ," spits the man, and Newt holds up his hands in surrender.

"Woah, dude, no need to be pissy," he shoots back, "jeez."

The man does look contrite, though, and he says, "My apologies. I'm simply a tad bit—stressed. My… _friends_ insisted I came with them for a trip over the weekend, and, well, they decided to rather abruptly abandon me in the middle of the night."

Newt frowns at him. "Dude, who the hell does that?" he asks rhetorically. "Dicks."

That, at least, manages to pull a wry, if pained, smile to his lips. "Yes, quite so."

"Do you wanna come in?" Newt offers, propping the door open, and the other ducks inside.

"Thank you," he says, "truly—I honestly was quite at a loss for what to do, given that they took the tents with them."

" _Fuck_ ," Newt whistles. "Wow. Asshats. Well, I'm glad I was home to open the door—the next house isn't for fifteen miles. Dude, you wanna sit down?"

"Yes, thank you," he says gratefully, slumping back onto Newt's sofa. "Ah—I'm Hermann, by the way."

"Newt!" He debates offering a hand for the other to shake, but Hermann looks exhausted. "Do you want to crash here for a bit? I can call you a taxi later and you can get back to—"

"Most of my items are in my hotel room back in the city," Hermann provides. "But are you certain? I don't want to impose—"

Newt waves him off. "Nah, dude, it's fine," he reassures. "The bedroom's right down that way—I'll wake you in a few hours, yeah?" Hermann doesn't look fully convinced, but he nods grudgingly.

"Alright—though I don't know how to repay you for this…" he trails off.

"Dude," Newt says, " _dude_ , your friends left you in the middle of the woods and drove off. I'm not gonna ask for anything. Just sleep, yeah?"

Hermann finally seems to accept it, dragging himself back to his feet, and Newt watches him with a careful eye to make sure he doesn't fall over on the way to the bedroom.

Later, Newt watches the taxi pull away, disappear over the horizon, and he thinks, _Hermann seems like a cool dude. Pity we'll never meet again._

* * *

Three years later, after Tresspasser's defeat and then, Hundun's, Newt sits down for a three-day long manic brainstorming session, and, at the end of it, presses _send_ on an email to Doctor Hermann Gottlieb.

 _Doctor Gottlieb,_

 _We've never met, but I admire your work on the quote-unquote "Breach" greatly. Do you think we could possibly work together? This kaiju situation doesn't seem like a fluke, and I want to collaborate with one of the greatest minds to try and figure this out…_


	45. 45

**ghost**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "The only way to solve a problem is to understand it."**

* * *

The cell is an over-glorified box; the walls are two-sided mirrors; transparent on the outside, opaque within, and Hermann's fought so hard, so _hard_ even just for this, to get him out of the tiny, claustrophobic holding-cell where they strapped him to the chair, bloodied and bruised, Hermann's only connection to him the awful security tapes.

His fingers are tight around the head of the cane, the marks on his neck still fading beneath a high collar. Newt's laying on the flimsy white cot, staring at the ceiling, and he rises when Hermann approaches.

"…what is it now?" he asks, tiredly, face gaunt, shadows beneath his eyes dark. Sensing Hermann's surprise, he says, a touch of dark amusement in his tone, "Oh, don't worry, I can't see you. I can hear you, though. Who is it this time, then?"

Hermann swallows. "It's me, Newton."

The other's expression doesn't change, shaky exhale the only indication he's affected in any way. "Oh?" he asks, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, "well, then, come to see how far the genius has fallen? Truly a _kaiju groupie_ now, eh, Hermann?"

"Don't say that," Hermann snaps, biting and pained, and the other laughs hollowly.

"Oh," he murmurs, "of all people, I thought you'd be the one to be angriest. What with the—" he gestures to his neck, and Hermann instinctively reaches to adjust his collar before remembering that the other can't even see it and drops his hand to his side.

"That wasn't you," Hermann counters. "That was the— _Precursors_."

Newt's lips, cracked and peeling, curl into a bitter, humourless smile. "Just like Mako's death wasn't me? Don't fool yourself, Hermann—those were my hands coding the code, my ideas that they took and twisted. It's always been me, Hermann—"

" _Stop!_ " Hermann cries desperately, "stop this, Newton!"

Newt grins towards him jaggedly. "It's true, though—and aren't you the one who's always in search of the truth, Hermann? _'Politics, poetry, promises—'_ "

Hermann stamps on the floor with his cane, the sound loud and jaring. In the silence following, Hermann chokes out roughly, "That was a decade ago, Newton, I'm not the same as I was."

And who is he, even? After all these years, he's not even sure—is he himself, with threads of _Newton_ woven into the greater tapestry of his personality, or is it more? Is it less? And, for that matter, who is _Newton_ , now?

Newt is finally quiet, and Hermann swallows, stepping close enough to the glass that he can touch it, reaches out and presses a palm to it. "Newton," he says, hoarsely, and Newt steps forward, presses his own hand to the glass. Hermann moves his hand so that they line up.

Quietly enough that Hermann barely catches it, he says, "Who I was would have loved who you became." His tone is indecipherable.

"And now?" Hermann asks, holding his breath.

Newt smiles sadly. "Don't be weighed down by my mistakes, Hermann. They're not your burden to carry."

"And what of my own?" he asks, "and what of Alice? What am I to tell _her?_ "

Newt's laugh is sudden, high and wheezing. "You don't know?" he asks, "you don't know?"

Hermann's silence is answer enough, and Newt laughs again, throws his head back. "Oh, Hermann," he wheezes, breathless. "You truly believed I would leave you for someone else?"

"I had no frame of reference," Hermann says, coldly, "and it doesn't seem fair to not inform your— _Alice_ of what has happened."

"Well, good luck with that," Newt replies, turning his back. "Goodbye, Hermann."

Hermann watches him for a few moments, silently, watches the shake of the other's shoulders as he sits on the cot, the way he buries his face in his hands, wants to gather him in his arms, but they're separated, like they were more than twenty years ago, but this time, by more than a mere ocean.

Unable to do anything, Hermann turns away, heart heavy.

(When he finally ventures into the other's penthouse, finds the tank, the brain floating in off-green liquid, _ALICE_ scrawled in a shaky hand on the glass with sharpie, he stumbles into the bathroom, throws up in the toilet, hands clenched and white-knuckled on the bowl.

"So, then, now you know," Newt says, when he hears his shaky tone when they speak the next day.

"I'm sorry," Hermann says, unable to articulate his thoughts. "I'm so, so sorry."

Newt's smile is small and sad, and when he speaks, he sounds decades older. "Burn it, Hermann. Don't let anyone else get their hands on it; don't do what I would do. Don't be haunted by my ghosts, Hermann."

Hermann looks away, dabs the handkerchief at the blood dripping from his nose. "This is the only way," he says quietly, too quiet for the other to hear, "the only way to solve a problem is to understand it.")


	46. 46

**hidden depths [have delicious results, apparently]**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt meets Dietrich. Hermann's apology is less-than orthodox."**

* * *

"Hermann? Hermann! Kleiner Bruder, I know you're in there!" shouts the person banging on his door, and Newt blinks groggily, rolls over to check the time. Eight AM. Too early. He groans and buries his head under the pillow, hoping that it'll make it go away, but no luck.

"Hermann!" shouts the voice again, and, resigned to his fate, Newt pushes the covers off, stumbles out of the room and towards the front door, pulling it open. There's a second of silent, before the man says, "Oh. You're not Hermann."

"Yeah, no _shit_ ," Newt grumbles.

The man blinks rapidly and averts his gaze, staring into the distance over Newt's shoulder, and he realises, suddenly, that he's wearing a shirt that's too small and a pair of short shorts and nothing else. _Eh, fuck it_ , he thinks, _if he wants to come banging on my door at eight in the morning, he can deal with my pajamas._

Instead of saying anything about his state of dress—or lack thereof—the man simply says, "Well, I must've got the wrong number. Very sorry. I'll, ah, just—" he waves vaguely and backs away from the door, leaving Newt standing in front of an open door.

"Well," he mutters, "guess that's that," and slams the door, and crawls back into bed.

By the next day, he's already forgotten about the incident—at least, until he gets back from the lab and finds a box in front of his door. If not for the sticky-note that says _Doctor Geiszler_ on it, he'd asume it's for someone else.

He gives it a once-over, puzzled, before shrugging and picking it up, and unlocks his door. The box gets tossed on a pile of his stuff, and he doesn't remember it until, the next day, Hermann forces him to take his paperwork back to his quarters. He tips his chair back, teetering on two legs, and his eyes rove across the room, catching on the blue lid.

"Huh," he murmurs, grabs it and pries the lid off. Whatever he's expecting, it's not— _this_.

Neat rows of perfectly-shaped snickerdoodles meet his stunned gaze, the enticing scent pervading his senses, and, hesitantly, afraid that it'll disappear before his eyes, he reaches to grab one.

The cookie is very, _very_ real, as is the flavour—oh, the flavour! Newt almost dies—he hasn't had _real_ cinnamon in…years. Well, that's rationing for you. But who on earth has access to cinnamon, _and_ would make cookies for _him?_

The question plagues him the rest of the day and into the next.

" _Newton!_ " Hermann snaps, when he almost drinks a beaker of neutralised Kaiju Blue in his absent-mindedness. "For my sanity's sake, _please_ pay attention!"

Newt grins cheekily. "Aww, Herms, I didn't know you cared!" he coos, and Hermann makes a disgruntled face at him, which is _way_ more adorable than it has any right to be.

"If you were to pass, I would get assigned some incompetent lab assistant," Hermann grumbles. "And I have _no_ interest in that." Newt hums, mind already far away. There's silence, for a while, and then Hermann says, "I, ah, apologise."

That alone is enough to jolt Newt out of his preoccupation. "Uh, what?" he asks, "sorry, come again?"

"I _apologise_ ," Hermann repeats, crossly, "really, Newton, you're not deaf—"

"Who are you, and what have you done with Hermann?" Newt demands.

"Oh, do be quiet!" Hermann snaps, "here I am, trying to apologise for my brother's horrid behaviour, and all you can do is joke! Honestly, Newton, I can't _believe_ you sometimes."

That gives Newt a pause. "Brother?" he questions, "you never mentioned any siblings."

Hermann grimaces. "As you know, I do not have the…best relationship with my family," he says delicately.

"Right," Newt nods.

"My brother, Dietrich," Hermann continues, "saw it fit to drop by for a surprise visit with no forewarning—and, I am afraid, he got the wrong door and disturbed your sleep."

 _Oh_. "Nah, it's fine," Newt replies—Hermann looks genuinely distressed about this, and Newt, as much as it may seem otherwise, doesn't actually want to guy to feel bad. (Kind of the opposite, but _that's_ not gonna happen.) "I get it—I mean, I don't have any siblings, but _lots_ of cousins, so…" he trails off, and Hermann nods.

"If there's any other way I can apologise, though," he gnaws on his lip. "Well, you know where I am."

Newt shoots him finger-guns and turns back to his dissections, ignoring the voice in his head that insists there's more to it.

A few hours later, he resurfaces from his work, and the voice comes back full force.

 _If there's any other way—_

Wait.

 _Other?_

"Other?" he asks, "what do you mean, _other?_ "

But Hermann's already gone, the chalkboards wiped clean, the clock on the counter blinking _1:00_ , and Newt resists the urge to bang his head against the table.

 _Of course_ , he thinks darkly _, of course he's cute, and interesting,_ and _he can bake._

 _Fuck._

Newt might be just a _little_ bit in love.


	47. 47

**salt and drunken confessions**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Post-Drift, Newt is possibly slightly inebriated, but when Hermann needs him, he's there.**

 **(He'll always be there for Hermann.)"**

* * *

"Hermann!" The floor tilts sickeningly, and Newt braces against the door in an attempt to stay upright, shouts again, "Hermann! _Hermann, open—_ " The door's yanked open, and Newt lurches forward, barely catching himself before he face-plants on the floor.

Or—apparently, doesn't catch himself; rather, stumbles against— _into_ —a wiry, lean frame, brings them both crashing to the ground with a shout, a hiss of pain, the clatter of a cane against the floor, and Newt realises that _he's_ hissed the pained sound as well, the bolt of fiery pain that races through his leg bringing him up short.

He scrambles to his feet, blinks down at Hermann, who's bent at an odd angle, lips pursed and white, and murmurs, half-heartedly, guiltily, "I just wanted salt for my fries."

"Oh, yes, of course," Hermann bites, pulling himself up, nostrils flaring—is that blood on his lip? The pain in Newt's own, the phantom sensation of teeth, says _yes—_ "yes, that excuses it, of course, banging on my door at an ungodly hour—"

"Shut it," Newt snaps, anger flaring suddenly, "we canceled the apocalypse—how can you _possibly_ be _sleeping_ , _now_ , Hermann?"

"Exhaustion," Hermann says shortly, "waits for no man. So either be silent, or I will silence you. Good _night_ , Doctor Geiszler."

Newt reels back. " _Doctor Geiszler?_ " he questions incredulously, then, anger crackling in his words, "are you fucking _kidding_ me? Now? After—that? You just, what, want to go back to—"

"Leave, Geiszler," Hermann says, quietly, but his tone is dark, sharp, and it's worse than a slap, leaves Newt feeling stripped bare and laid for judgement.

"Hermann, I—"

" _Leave,_ " Hermanns snaps, strides forward, looming over Newt despite only having a two inch height advantage, and Newt backs out the door; the instant he's over the threshold, the metal door slams with a _clang_.

" _Okay_ , then," Newt says, falsely upbeat, and promptly runs into a wall when he turns around.

* * *

Hermann scrubs a hand over his face, gazes at his reflection, the red ringing his iris. In truth, he hadn't been sleeping as he told Newt—sleep is both elusive and horifying, makes him jolt awake with a scream on his lips, the need for blood, to k _ill destroykillthemallwewillcome_ —

He blinks rapidly, the blue-white of the drift that's settled like a film over his vision briefly lifting. His knuckles are white on the basin of the tiny sink, and he ignores the protests of his leg.

Why did he snap at Newt? He's not even quite sure himself, as loathe as he is to admit, and that—scares him. He can admit that, at least.

It's just—the proximity is too _much_ and yet also not _enough_ , the need to be one again both intoxicating and revolting. He wonders—is it him? Or is it Newt?

The buzz in the back of his mind pulsates, and, morbid curiousity his only excuse, he prods it—

[ _are we…_

 _…one_

 _Newt and Hermann—no Hermann no Newt just—_

 _us_ ]

He gasps, eyes snapping open. He's on the ground, the white-blue lifted, and, in an ironic twist, Newt's gripping his shoulders, a concerned expression—fear and something _more_ bright in his eyes. "— _Hermann!_ " he calls again, and Hermann weakly reaches for the hand on his arm.

"…'on," he croaks, "Newton."

The other lets out a sob and, without warning, drags him into a tight embrace, and, for the first time, Hermann doesn't resist it, just slumps against the biologist, lets out a deep breath, eyes flickering closed.

[ _safe_ ]


	48. 48

**elves and hunters**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: ""Hey!" shouts a familiar voice. " _Hey_ , you bastard, over here!"**

 **It's Newton. Idiotic, hero-wannabe, infuriatingly self-preservation-instinct-lacking Newt. Hermann could scream—though in joy or frustration, he's not sure. Either way, he's losing consciousness quickly, the sticky, sweet scent of blood heavy in his nose.**

 **There's a hand on his cheek, Newt's worries face swimming before his vision, and, voice panicked, he yells, "Jaeger? Jaeger! Dude, you gotta stay with me now, don't—""**

* * *

Hermann's fist misses the elf—elf? he's not sure; the man certainly has the pointy ears for it, and moving tattoos, but he could be a goblin for all Hermann knows—, the air crackling, the taste of ozone, and the possibly-elf shoots him a confused look.

"Dude!" he shouts, "dude, what the _fuck?_ Why are you punching me—?" He doesn't manage to duck the next blow, Hermann's elbow connecting with his midsection, and he lets out a winded _oof_.

"Seriously," he pants, "can we just—talk about this—?"

Despite himself, Hermann's brow furrows, and he finds himself answering. "Talk about what, exactly? You're a criminal—"

"Am not!" contradicts the other hotly. "I'm—I'm helping people! Like you!"

"You're a villain," Hermann contradicts coolly, and the moment of indignant sputtering on the other's part is enough for Hermann to finally knock him out and clap a universal inhibitor on his wrist and hand him over to the authorities.

He doesn't stay in long—they never do, and so Hermann's not really really surprised when, a week later, he gets an alert about a break-in at a high-brow tech company by the newly christened—courtesy of the media—Emissary.

"That's a ridiculous name," he points out, because apparently he does this now, banters with the people he fights. "Pretentious."

"Eh," the other replies noncommittally, leaps out of the way of Hermann's crackling lightning-bolt shot, and hops up onto a desk that's somehow managed to remain upright. "Stupid name, good intentions."

Hermann scoffs. "You're trying to steal a hard-drive of plans."

"Yeah, cause the company is trying to keep the instructions for repair from the public so that when their stuff breaks, they have to buy a brand-new one," the other shoots back. "I'm doing good—helping the common person."

Hermann still wins, but the other's words weigh heavy on his mind even after his face disappears behind the door of a police cruiser, red and blue flashing as it pulls away.

The next time they meet, Hermann almost doesn't recognise him; he certainly doesn't recognise Hermann, dressed in civies and hunched over. It's in a park, of all places; Emissary is missing his trademark red-lensed sunglasses and skin-tight costume, and he almost knocks Hermann over.

"Dude, I am _so_ sorry," he rushes out, stumbling over his words—and his feet—bending over to grab Hermann's fallen books and awkwardly hands them to Hermann. "I'm just—clumsy—"

At this, he finally topples over and onto Hermann before leaping away, face flushed. "Indeed," Hermann comments drily, and the other's face, already scarlet, goes crimson.

"Hey!" he protests. "Hey, I—" he flounders for a defence, and Hermann—partially unsuccessfully—bites back a smirk. Instead, the man says, "I'm Newt."

Hermann's lip twitches. "Your parents named you after an amphibian."

"No! _Isaac_ Newton," the elf— _Newton—_ huffs.

Hermann shakes his head. "Well, either way, Newton, I must be off."

As he walks away, Newt calls after him, "Hey! Hey, you going to give me your name?"

 _Absolutely not_ , says the rational part of his mind. _He's attractive, though, and…kind,_ protests the other. He ruthlessly quashes that part down, fiddling with the head of his cane.

They keep meeting, both in and out of civies, and Hermann…well, he grows _fond_ of the elf—well, half-elf, as he learns—, for lack of a better term. While his attempts to stop the self-proclaimed Robin Hood don't _stop_ —Newt _is_ a felon, after all—his blows don't hit as hard.

Embarrassing as it is to admit, he has a bit of a soft spot for Newt.

Which, incidentally, leads to him to, instead of saying _no_ , sharply, as he should, when the other, beaming sheepishly at him, hands him a scrap of paper and says, "Call _me?_ " as if surprised by his own forwardness.

"Um," Hermann says, "er."

And then, trying not to seem like he's fleeing, he—well, he flees.

They don't bump into each other for a few weeks after, Hermann pointedly, and partially to prove to himself that he _can_ , ignores the paper, and the number written on it.

So when they run into each other, it's—a shock, to say the least. Hermann is dealing with a slightly trickier-than-usual earth-elemental (or something. He's not quite sure).

Nothing is out of the ordinary, really, until he misses the minute tell of a bluff and his head is slammed against concrete, black spots skittering across his swimming vision, and he can't stand—

"Hey!" shouts a familiar voice. " _Hey_ , you bastard, over here!"

It's Newton. Idiotic, hero-wannabe, infuriatingly self-preservation-instinct-lacking _Newt_. Hermann could scream—though in joy or frustration, he's not sure. Either way, he's losing consciousness quickly, the sticky, sweet scent of blood heavy in his nose.

There's a hand on his cheek, Newt's worries face swimming before his vision, and, voice panicked, he yells, "Jaeger? Jaeger! Dude, you gotta stay with me now, don't—"

Hermann reaches out weakly to grasp the front of Newt's ridiculous Hawaiian-print shirt and without thinking, rasps, "Sorry I didn't call."

Darkness drags him down, the last thing he sees before the nothingness envelopes him Newt's Confusion morphing into—

He coughs violently, the breath rattling in his lungs, the strength gone from his limbs. There's movement in his periphery, and then a cup oppressed to his lips. "Drink."

Hermann does so, too tired to protest, gulping the water like a dying man in a desert, a small trickle trailing down his chin and neck in his eagerness. The cup disappears, and Hermann opens his mouth, swallows, and manages to croak, "What…?"

"I can't believe you almost died on me, you bastard," Newt hisses, eyes red-rimmed. "Do you _know_ what it was like to pull back your mask when I realized you'd stop breathing? How—how fucking _terrifying_ it was?"

"…sorry," Hermann murmurs, lips dry and cracked, drops his gaze to the bedsheets. He's—in a bedroom, three or four pillows propped up to allow him to lean against them.

There's a sniffle, and then Newt's cradling his face in his hands. "You're okay," he says, voice choked. "You're—you're okay."

Uncertain of what to say, Hermann remains silent, but he does raise a hand to cover the other's, waits for his tears to run their course. When Newt's breathing has finally evened out, he says, "You know, this isn't how I expected to get you into my bed."

It startles a painful bark of laughter out of Hermann. "Well," he replies, "you'll get a second chance as soon as i've healed up properly."

Newt beams.


	49. 49

**confession**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Ten years of radio silence; what happened during that decade? Newt reveals a piece of it to Hermann—one that rekindles the flickering flame of hope he carries within him."**

* * *

They're sitting across from each other—the barrier between them no longer that of three feet of concrete and steel or the Atlantic, but yet, somehow, the flimsy table separating them seems more insurmountable than anything before it.

Across from him, Newt is unusually still, fingers not tapping away at his leg, nor are his eyes darting from side to side wildly as he practically vibrates out of him skin, no; these are the things that the Precursors took from him—his spark of life, dampened. Hermann blinks ways tears that threaten to spill down his cheeks.

"I am _surprised_ they _let_ you in." The cadence of Newt's speech is odd, halting and stressing words he wouldn't usually, hollow. " _Since_ you're a valuable asset _to_ them."

Hermann mulls over the sentences—it's more than Newton has spoken to him in a long, long time. The real Newt, that is—the Precursors were more than happy to listen to themselves speak. "I—" he starts, pauses. "Well, they didn't _let_ me do anything."

Newt doesn't him like Hermann expects, merely dipping his head the smallest fraction. "Of course. You always were a stubborn _one_ , were you not, Doctor Gottlieb?" He should chuckle, then, say, _Herms, dude, you're like an ox_ but his gaze drops to the floor, leaving the sentence complete.

"Hermann, please," Hermann presses—he's, what? Nostalgic? The old Drift bond, at least partially, can be blamed for this need for intimacy, but truthfully, it's mostly Hermann himself. "Twenty-three years—I think you've earnt it."

"Oh, you think _so_ ," Newt says, more a blunt statement than a question. "Tell _me_ , Hermann, what did they tell _you_? I suppose they _sugar_ -coated it and said _that_ —"

"I know you," Hermann cuts in firmly, "and I know well enough that it's the truth when I say that you were wholly unaware of the Precursors' actions."

Newt blinks at him slowly, almost reptilian. "Was I _though_? And would you know _if_ that is true?"

"What proof do you have that it _isn't_?" Hermann counters. "You underestimate the bond between us, Newton—I'd know if you were lying." Unbidden: _But then, how did I not know that it wasn't truly him?_ Questions, questions—and so few answers,

" _Fair_ enough," Newt acknowledges, "but _that_ still does not explain why you _are_ here."

"Perhaps I wanted to see you?" It's both a question and an admission—questioning himself as to why, and admitting that he doesn't quite know, but still does regardless. "Given that I have scarcely spoken to each other in the past decade."

Memories: the blinking of a cursor as Hermann stares at a screen, words and tears and the bitter burn of strong alcohol, emails sent and received with no reply, texts read but left unanswered. Once, a physical letter—postmarked in his own cramped script to one _Doctor Newton Geiszler_ , the taste of hope and longing and bitter sorrow at his fingertips, but no answer.

Harsher than he's intended, with a note of spite: "Though hardly for lack of trying on my part."

It's unfair to Newton—he knows this, but yet. Yet, it's true; from what Newt has told them, the Precursors would take control for brief—or, brief, relatively speaking—periods, leaving Newt with blank spots in his memories, but otherwise, they preferred to manipulate rather than forcefully control.

"No, you're right." Newt's not looking at him anymore, gaze fixed on the floor, and he drags a hand through his hair, lets out a rattling exhale—the most Newton thing Hermann has seen him do so far. "It was like— _I_ was convinced I needed to stay away from you, but I did not know why. And _when_ —if I tried _to_ contact you—bam. _Blank_ spot and a stronger conviction _that_ I needed to stay away."

The admission knocks the breath out of Hermann, and he reaches out to settle his hand on Newton's arm. "I…" words fail him, and so, he simply sits there for some time, Hans pressed to the other's arm.

"I kept _them_ , just _so_ you know," Newton says, and his voice is almost—soft, perhaps, no longer so devastatingly weary and empty. "The texts and emails. Your—letter."

 _Oh_ , he should say, ask, _why_? but all he can muster up is a quiet hum, tears, though this time, not of loss, stinging the corners of his eyes. "I didn't think you would." Once he's said it, the true gravity of the admission hits him, and the tears finally fall, leaving him weeping silently, hand dropping from Newt's arm to his lap.

Tentatively, as if afraid he'll break, Newt makes his way to Hermann's side, kneels down so they're at the same level, and draws Hermann in so his head is on Newton's shoulder. The other doesn't say anything, lets Hermann cry without comment, but his presence is more than enough, and, for the first time in years, Hermann allows himself to hope that things might, possibly, turn out alright.


	50. 50

**baby steps (down to Hell)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt wants this, really, he does, but—**

 **It's the Drift-bleed; that's the only explanation."**

* * *

"You shouldn't drink," Hermann says, somehow in equal parts tender and frustrated, but wholly, wholly scolding because he's _Hermann_. "You haven't even been to see a doctor yet."

"I _am_ a doctor," Newt grumbles, knows he sounds congested and half-dead on his feet, blood still dried on his upper lip; he didn't manage to wipe it all off, the first or second time.

Hermann frowns at him. "A _medical_ doctor," he stresses. "I've known for years you were feckless with regards to your health, but this is simply ridiculous, Newton—"

Newt waves him off. "I'm not a kid, dude, I've matured since then."

(He says it like that and knows it sounds like he means one thing but—)

(Since the _Drift,_ he means, but doesn't say aloud. It feels—shockingly, fragile.)

So, he's not very good at expressing himself—in the ways that matter, anyway, but what's new, Scooby-Do?

"That was two hours ago," Hermann points out, and Newt starts, about to ask how he knows, but—of course: the Drift. _What will this mean for us?_ he wonders. Will it complicate whatever it is they have? Because Newt doesn't—he doesn't want to go back to what they were at the start, doesn't want to be angry and spiteful and still hurting over what isn't even a break-up, not really, because there wasn't a _them_ to start with.

So instead, he peels his lips back over his teeth—odd, how alien the basic human gesture seems, but, he figures, it makes sense; he does keep forgetting that he doesn't have eight arms, which, creepy, what are the kaiju overlords, arachnids?

(Worse, he knows; at least spiders have beauty in a way something deadly and so basely _animalistic—_ even if, yeah, they're not really _animals—_ does, they have their place in the ecosystem. The kaiju overlords were—malicious. Greedy. Horrifyingly human in that way, and frighteningly inhuman in all others.)

Hermann licks his lips, tugs away a piece of dead skin—a nervous habit of _Newt's_ , actually, isn't that odd—and says, "Newton, can we—can we talk?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Newt replies, falsely cheerful, because he's not fine by any definition of the word and it feels like he's an intruder in his own body, skin too tight, and if he stops going through the motions, the ones he knows he does and annoy others and yeah, he knows that _too_ but it feels like he'll fall to pieces if he stops—"oh, you mean—in private?"

Hermann blinks at him, the motion somehow conveying the phantom of gratefulness. "Ah, yes—if you don't mind."

His lips twist up, unbidden, and it hurts, somehow, but he says, "Yeah, Herms, lead the way."

That Hermann doesn't scowl and snap at him for that is, somehow, a strike against—what? Newt's not even sure, but _something_. Hermann's hand's on his arm, then, and Newt falls in step beside him, lets him brace against him, and doesn't comment.

The hallway they end up in is somewhere near their lab—far enough from LOCCENT that the sounds of partying are muffled, the light dim on the concrete walls. Hermann breaks away from him and sits on the step in front of one of the doors, and Newt sits next to him.

They're silent for a moment, before Hermann says, voice uncharacteristically thick, "…we work together, don't we?"

"What?" He's—startled, and, really, it's odd; he shouldn't be, because, in theory, the Drift should've put them in perfect synchrony, but, hey, dying fetal kaiju brain, so maybe that has something to do with it.

"Us," Hermann clarifies, and Newt thinks, _fuck, I know where this is going_ and if it does—"what if—what if we tried it? Together? We're not—complimentary, but we _work_ , somehow."

And Newt is—

Frozen, because—

"Why the hell not?" Hermann asks, desperately, his hand suddenly gripping Newt's, tightly, "why—"

"Hermann," Newt says, softly, because this can't be real, it's just the Drift bleed—"Hermann, I—I love you, Hermann, but—you're still experiencing Drift bleed, Hermann, and I am too." He takes a breath. (So goddamn afraid but— _Doctor Geiszler, yes. Newt? Not recommended_.) "I love you, Hermann, but…this isn't me, not fully, and this—" he eases his hand out of Hermann's, "this sure as hell isn't you."

Hermann lets out a soft, quiet, barely-there noise, and Newt wants to take it all back except it isn't Hermann, not really, not fully, _can't_ be, and Newt doesn't want to trap him in something he'll regret. "Oh," Hermann says, not meeting his eyes. "…alright. Alright."

Newt ignores the aching hollowness of that and doesn't reach out like he wants to. Some things are better left undone, for all parties involved.


	51. 51

**Title: silly heart**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Alcohol and exhaustion—this makes for a deadly combination at the best of times, and a devastating one at the worst."**

* * *

It starts with a kiss—no—

It starts with the blue of the Drift, the screaming of his mind and Newton's, backlit by the white noise of the dying kaiju brain, tumbling through flashes of memories faster than lightspeed and yet also slowly, so slowly, as if frozen in time, an entire lifetime, two entire lifetimes pass before his eyes, and then—

It's over and he's retching, miserably, shaking as he grips the edge of a discarded toilet bowl, pain shooting up his leg—

No, he's sixteen and his leg is strong and he's gripping the rim of a bowl, shaking, half-delirious with fever, shirt wet with sweat and sticking to his skin, the sound of a bird chirping cheerfully outside the window in sharp relief with his wretched state—

There's the soft murmur of paper rustling, and he turns; Newton is, for once, sitting properly on the lab stool, pen poised, staring at Hermann intently, and Hermann wonders how long he's been doing so, flushes. " _What?_ " he snaps, and Newt shrugs.

"Nothing," he replies, glancing down to his paper, and Hermann—

Would glower, except, for some reason, he doesn't _want_ to; the realisation brings him up short, and he frowns. "Alright, then," he says, more to himself than the biologist, and returns to his chalkboards.

Perhaps, he thinks, it's that he still remembers finding Newton seizing on the ground, blood streaming from his nose—it is, he suspects, an image that will be burnt into his retinas for all of time, the desperate way the other clung to him, eyes panicked.

Something about it is—frightening, frighteningly _beautiful_ , the synchronicity it's lent them, and Hermann hates it as much as he loves it. If they were each other's driving force before, the incessant need to prove the other wrong resulting in an almost-manic state of brilliance, now they now just how to push to get the best results, to be the catalyst but—

It leaves Hermann with the emotional equivalent of vertigo more often than he'd like, unable to distinguish what is _him_ and what is _Newton_ , the two interwoven almost beyond recognition, and he _hates_ that, hates that his mind refuses the order he once so strictly imposed upon it, hates the brilliant flashes of blue whenever he closes his eyes, robbing him of his already scant hours of sleep.

Newton revels in it, laughs gleefully when he finds Hermann tapping away unconsciously one day, when things are slow. " _Hah_ ," he crows, grinning smugly, and Hermann is suddenly hit with a wave of—something _fond_ , scowls when he can't tell whose it is.

"Never speak of this," he orders, but it sounds half-hearted to him, and Newt just keeps grinning.

It's the third week before the full weight of the events of the twelfth of January hit him fully; of course he had known, logically, but the significance of it—the loss, the trauma, it's only just now hit him, and it leaves him shaking, head in his hands, silent tears streaming down his face.

A hand on his shoulder; Newton's, the weight a silent comfort, and Hermann leans into it. Almost unthinkingly, he says, "I—I'm not sure—" he trails off, unsure how to finish; because, in the end, really, that's it, isn't it? He's—relieved, of course, and bitterly, bitterly sad and upset that it took over a decade and countless lives to end it, but above all, he just feels…empty.

He raises his head and Newt meets his gaze, sympathy written on his face, and he asks, uncharacteristically soft, "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Hermann runs his tongue over his teeth, thinking, before he says, honestly, "I don't know."

"Alright." That the other accepts it at face value tells Hermann that he really means it; he's—worried, Hermann thinks, the aftertaste of the emotion lingering in the Drift bond, but he respects Hermann enough—knows him well enough—to not push. "I—I have a bottle of…vodka, I think, somewhere in my room if you want any."

Hermann nods minutely. "Yes, that would be appreciated," he replies, "but I'm afraid—well, I'm afraid I simply do not have the energy to make the trip there—"

Newton cuts him off with a wave. "'s fine, dude," he reassures, "I get it. You hang tight—I'll be back in a few." Hermann lets his head fall back against the headrest, stares at the ceiling, and lets out a shaky breath.

The Kaidanovskys, Marshal Pentecost, the Wei-Tang triplets, Chuck Hansen…none are people he was ever on particularly good terms with, but now they're dead, Hermann feels the loss acutely, and the weight is so, so heavy.

Newton's back, and he opens his eyes at the sound of the familiar footfalls, unaware that they had slipped shut. Newton sets down an unmarked bottle in front of Hermann and goes to fetch another chair.

"No cups?" Hermann asks, stating the obvious.

The biologist shrugs. "I couldn't find any."

Hermann sighs, resigned. "Well, if I catch a cold from this, at least I'll know who to yell at," he grumbles, and Newt's lip twitches. "Well, pass the bottle then."

Newton obliges, unscrewing the cap and offering it to Hermann, who tips it back. The liquid burns down his throat, and he tamps down the urge to cough, knowing that that'll only make it worse. "You're certain that's not pure ethanol?" Hermann rasps.

Newt shrugs a shoulder, reaching for the bottle and taking a small sip, grimaces. "No sure—I think some of the Russian J-Techs made it in a bathtub," he admits.

"Hm," Hermann murmurs, not commenting, and takes the bottle back for another sip.

They only get a quarter of the way through it, in the end, because Hermann is having trouble holding the bottle to his lips, and Newton has no tolerance to speak of. They've moved to sitting on the floor, the cold of the concrete a balm, and Hermann's leaned against the shorter man, head resting on his shoulder.

"…sucks," Newt murmurs, not clarifying what he's speaking of, and Hermann makes a noncommittal sound. The other's face is close, closer than Hermann can ever remember it being, and he practically goes cross-eyed. Newt laughs, short and hiccoughing, and Hermann thinks that it's oddly attractive, actually, in the way that is just so _Newton_ that it's breathtaking.

And then, before he realises it's happened, they're breaking apart, Newt's gaze flicking to his lips, and—

When he wakes, he's sitting in his chair at his desk, the phantom sensation of lips on his own, Newton nowhere to be found, and—

It doesn't mean anything, of course it doesn't, but for a split second, that silly heart of his had gotten ahead of his brain and imagined it was heading toward something. He doesn't know what that something was, but it was more than a bit of drunken fumbling around in dark corners.

He swallows back the bitter taste of longing.

* * *

Newt doesn't—

Give it much thought, really. Or—he gives it too much though? Things are hard to discern in relation to Hermann, always have been, even before the Drift pulling them apart and putting them back together but not _quite_ , the pieces a little jagged at the edges; they don't fit properly, or even back the way that they fit wrong _before_.

So he smiles, because that's what he'd do, even if it feels alien, now, and offers Hermann the bottle of what might be vodka and they drink it until he's utterly smashed, fading in and out of German when he speaks, the heavier words mixing with the lighter English, and Hermann's looking at him with—something that stirs emotions long hidden, shoved deep down into the dark.

He tugs at his collar, swallows, suddenly warm, not just from the alcohol, and Hermann blinks at him slowly, lashes dark against his skin, and Newt is leaning forward, the natural progression, he thinks, of this—of them, what should've happened years ago when they first met instead of arguing.

The vodka slows them both, Newt especially, and they're fumbling under the dim light, hands clumsy, and finally, after numerous attempts to undo Hermann's shirt, Newt gives up, melting against the other with a huff of laughter, and tips his head to glance at Hermann.

His mouth is tipped up slightly at one end, as if he's not sure how to smile properly, and it's— _endearing_. His eyes are slipping shut, and he sighs softly, resting his head on Newt's shoulder. "…I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep, Newton," he murmurs. "But this has been—fun."

Newt's breath stutters to a halt, but Hermann's breaths have already turned shallow, leaving Newt supporting his weight, hurt and disappointed and feeling altogether humiliated for thinking that Hermann could possibly mean anything by it.

So: pointedly _not_ thinking about it, and especially not thinking about how Hermann curled against him when Newt, finally able to stand of his own accord, carefully picked him up and placed him in his chair, making sure his neck wasn't cricked at an awkward angle.

No, not thinking about that at all, because that's a recipe for disaster.

"I'm _not_ ," he says stubbornly to the kaiju skin-louse in the container across from him. It chitters at him in what Newt imagines is a mocking tone, the sound muffled by the glass, and Newt scowls. If Hermann were here, he'd scold Newt for anthropomorphizing it— _if_ he were here. Which he isn't, having made excuses the instant Newt got into the lab.

He can't help but feel hurt by that—of course he didn't want to just… _go_ back to being—whatever it is they are or where, not friends, exactly, but more than just colleagues, but he had hoped their relationship, whatever that may be, would change in a different way than it has.

Specifically, in a way that involves Newt and Hermann and a bit more than drunken making out. Sex, he means sex, he's not eleven, there's no point in making veiled references, and, plus, he's not even talking out _loud_ , this entire conversation is in his _head_. He scowls harder and grabs a pencil off of his desk— _desk_ , because that's the least they can do, given he helped cancel the apocalypse, he shouldn't be forced to share a desk with _Hermann_ —and chucks it at the skin-louse.

It bounces off of the glass, and the louse doesn't so much as move.

Boredom washes over him, momentarily displacing the angst, and he glances around for anything to do other than _work_. He digs through the desk drawer, tossing papers onto the desk. There should be some sort of something for him to fidget with—ah, there it is: a pen.

Probably one of the only ones in the lab, actually, because Hermann hates it when he writes his reports in pen, and long ago began, less-than-covertly, to nick and dispose of Newt's. What with the war, getting new ones was a bit of a hassle, so Newt eventually gave up.

The memory is, in equal parts aggravating and nostalgic, and he bites his cheek, reaching for the pen and pulling it out with a triumphant, "Hah!" before promptly dropping it and having to scramble under the desk for it, almost hitting his head when he comes up—

Hermann's by the side of the desk, closer than he's been in a while, and he's staring at something on the desk with an indecipherable expression, lips a thin line. Apprehension trickles down Newt's spine like ice-water, and he leans over to see what it is—

"Oh, _shit_ ," he murmurs, almost trance-like, and then Hermann opens his mouth, about to say something, and _that_ snaps him out of it. He makes a grab for the papers, but Hermann is faster than him, snatching them up and clutching them tightly. Newt panics, because—

Well, those are his sketches. Specifically, his sketches of _Hermann_ —or, at least, a few of them. And possibly (multiple) variations of _NG + HG,_ written in various fonts, as well as, most incriminatingly, in his best penmanship, _Newton Gottlieb_.

Without a second though, Newt leaps at Hermann, desperate to retrieve the papers. Hermann neatly steps aside, and Newt goes tumbling to the floor, lets out a hiss of pain when his head hits the concrete. "Give them _back_ ," he demands, hoping that his voice is steadier than it sounds, "look, I get it, you don't really care, but can you just—give those back? And pretend you never saw them?" His voice cracks part way through, because of course it does, leaving him feeling more than a little pathetic and humiliated.

Hermann makes a sort of a keening sound, and says, eyes broadcasting something like _pain_ , "Don't _care?_ " His lip trembles, and, deadly in it's quietness, he repeats, " _Don't care?_ Oh, that's _rich_ , coming from _you—_ the _audacity—_ "

"Oh, _sure_ ," Newt hisses, anger welling up—and _fuck_ , he's angry, yeah; if it were just _rejection_ that would be one thing, but Hermann's acting as if Newt has _wronged_ him somehow. "Yeah, sure, _Hermann_ , just blame _me—_ how dare _I_ feel disappointed that it _didn't mean anything to you! Fuck_ you, Hermann—reject me, whatever, but then—then—you come and get _upset_ over my attraction to you, yeah, _fuck me_ , right, how _dare_ I have a _crush_ on you—how _dare_ I not be able to just magically decide to stop being attracted to you!"

Once he's said it, his shoulders slump, exhausted and out of breath. Hermann doesn't say anything, staring at Newt unblinkingly like a deer caught in the headlights, and Newt forces himself to his feet, snatching the papers from his slack grip, and storms out of the lab, willing back tears.

He only gets halfway down the hall before the sound of Hermann's cane hitting the floor reaches his ears—faster than usual, as if the other is running as quickly as he can. "Wait!" Hermann calls after him, "Newton, please—"

Newt whips around, ready to tear into him, angry, bitter words on the tip of his tongue—

And sees the other; Hermann's panting, eyes wide, lip trembling, and he looks—upset. Swallowing, Newt bites out, "Look, if this is going to be another argument, can we just—not? Just—just this once, maybe?"

Hermann steps forward slowly, as if Newt's a stray cat he's afraid he'll scare off, and says, softly, so softly, "Newton, no. I'm sorry." He's so damn _quiet_ , too, none of the usual acerbity in his tone, and he continues, "I think—I _hope_ —that there has been an…error of communication, because, to put it frankly, I'm not sure we're on the same page, so to speak. So…I'd like to talk this out, if you'd be amenable."

Cautiously, Newt nods. "Okay. Yeah, okay," he says, a bit shakily. "Um, do you—want to go back to the lab and sit down, maybe? I mean, I don't think I want to deal with this standing up, if you feel me."

Hermann dips his head. "Of course."

The return to the lab is odd; both of them are quieter than usual, and they walk at a distance from each other—going at the same pace, but far apart enough that another person could pass between them.

Newt drags his chair over to the other side of Hermann's desk, putting the table between them. Hermann sits on the other side, stiff-backed, and Newt lets out a nervous laugh. "Shit, I don't know what to says," he breathes, "I just—yeah. Yeah."

"Very well, then," Hermann says, voice steadier than before, "perhaps we can start with my refutal of your notion that our—engagement last night means nothing to me. It was— _is_ ," he corrects himself, "of great emotional significance to me. And when I saw your—papers, I felt…mocked, to be honest; I believed that you had created them to mock my long-standing attraction to you."

Newt blinks. "Hermann, don't take this the wrong way, but that is honestly the most ridiculous thing I've heard this week." Hermann purses his lips, and Newt quickly backtracks. "I mean I'm _not_ mocking you, but it's just, like— _that's_ what your mind jumped to?"

Hermann relaxes minutely. "Yes, well," he says, sheepishly, "I suspect that it's from prolonged exposure to you."

Newt shoots him a quick smile before he becomes more serious. "Okay, okay," he says, squeezing his eyes shut, then blinking rapidly, as if the action will disperse his anxiety. "I—I'm attracted to you, Hermann, and, well, you said something last night that made it seem like everything we did was just—meaningless, I guess, and that…well, that _hurt_ ," he confesses, "and then when you saw my…papers, I kinda freaked. Sorry."

The other is silent for a few seconds before he says, "I—I don't know what you're talking about, Newton." Before Newt can snap something sharp and pained, he holds up a hand. "Hear me out, please—my memories of the previous night are less than perfect, especially given the strength of the alcohol I ingested, and thus, I fear I may have an incomplete knowledge of what was said and done."

"Oh."

"Yes."

Newt drops his gaze to his hands, somehow still holding the pen, and clicks it a few times. "You said—um, after we kind of made out a bit, you said that it was… _fun_." The memory hurts, to be blunt, stings like salt on a papercut.

He glances back up, meets Hermann's gaze cautiously, and—"I'm sorry," Hermann says thickly. "I—I'm sorry that I hurt you. That wasn't my intention, and for that, I apologise. I never meant to diminish the significance of the situation; I was inebriated, even if not as obviously as yourself, and thus, not thinking clearly—though that is no excuse for the emotional anguish I caused you, for which I apologise yet again."

Uncertain of just how to address that, Newt instead asks, "Why did you think I was mocking you?"

There's a longer silence, and when Hermann finally speaks, the words sound pained. "I—when I woke up, I couldn't find you anywhere, and when I finally _did_ see you, you acted as if nothing had occurred. I—well, I assumed that it didn't carry the same emotional significance for you as it did for me." His eyes are glassy, and he drags his hand across them in an attempt to rid them of tears.

"I…" Newt's floundering and he knows it, so instead of trying to make a grand speech as he normally would, he instead settles simply on, "I'm sorry. I should've—"

Hermann cuts him off. "Should have what? That's in the past, Newton, and as much as it hurt— _hurts_ —there's nothing you can do about it. Time marches steadily onwards without any say on our part."

That prompts a laugh from Newt, because it's just—just so _Hermann_ , refreshingly so. Most of the day has been muzzy in the way that things are when he's too emotionally overwhelmed, and Hermann's words feel like a re-establishment of reality. "Yeah, you're right," he says. "I guess we're both really bad at talking about things, huh?"

Hermann smiles at him, small but genuine. "Quite," he agrees. "And…" he trails off, uncharacteristically hesitant, "if…if you would be amenable to it, perhaps we could do it properly—go for dinner, perhaps? As a date," he clarifies, and Newt grins, practically leaping out of his chair and rushing to pull Hermann into a hug, relishing the startled squeak he makes.

"Yeah," he says, face half-buried in Hermann's neck, "yeah, that sounds great."


	52. 52

**touch**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **The words on Newt's wrist are unmistakably the very same ones Hermann uttered to him a mere handful of hours ago."**

* * *

Newt's know—well, practically since day one? Or, well, whatever constitutes as "day one" for them, the letters or the meeting, or, actually, a decent case could be made that "day one" is actually the Drift? Or, well.

Whatever.

Whatever?

Yeah, whatever, it's a Thing. With a capital t sort of Thing. But it's also, like, a thing, lowercase, yeah that totally makes sense. It makes about as much sense as the fact that the buzz of the Drift tastes blue, though, so, yeah.

Back to the point: it's a Thing. Them. As in, him and Hermann, together, not him and the kaiju, because, well, it would suck. That would suck. Like, being soul-bound or whatever to a species of bioweapons? Would not be great.

"Oh, look," he mutters, dragging his hand over his eyes and refusing to meet what he knows will be a disappointed gaze in the mirror, "there, I've said it."

Which, now he thinks on it, he _hasn't_ done before. Out loud. Acknowledged it in real time, out loud, using the precise words "soul" and "bond", instead of vague allusions and—

Blood drips into the sink, and he stares through the slits between his fingers at it for a few second, partially in confusion, partially mute fascination, before he sighs and tips his head down, pinching his nose, wills it to stymie the flow.

After some indeterminate amount of time, he pulls his fingers away cautiously, relieved when he's rewarded by a distinct lack of scarlet, coppery-scented blood dripping down his face.

 _It'll be all right_ , he thinks, verging desperation, fingers on one hand white-knuckled on the rim of the sink basin, _it has to be_. This is typically Hermann's job—reassuring, that is, even if his version tends to have more insults to Newt's levels of intelligence. Which.

 _Where is he?_ Newt wonders. Probably hiding in his room, away from the party amping up in LOCCENT.

More to the point, however: nevermind his immediate convictions that Hermann is his soul—whatever, he's not going to say soul-mate, that's tacky. Life…partner, of some degree, perhaps? Whatever. Anyway, anyway.

It's been confirmed for him, really, actually, in real time. The very same words written in curling penmanship on the inside of his wrist, visible to only him—which, why do those things work like that? Who knows—is writ _By Jove, we are going to own this thing for sure!_

Like, can it be any clearer than that? First—they _get_ each other—or, at least, he thinks they do, whatever—two, they're Drift-compatible, yeah, which should mean _something_ , and three, yeah, that's _Hermann's_ writing on his skin, just past where the sleeve on his left arm ends, the very words he said to Newt, an incredulous grin, equal parts reckless abandon and panicked apprehension—how does he even do that?—splitting his face.

He lips cracked lips. There's no way he's telling Hermann. He'd be absolutely apopaleptic that the universe saw fit to pair Newt to him. Hell, Newt probably isn't _his_ soul-whatever, and that would be immensely awkward. So. Yeah.

(He wonders, for a brief moment, who's words are on Hermann's skin. Whoever they are, they're luckier than they know.)

File under: reasons to avoid Hermann.

Which is, why, Hermann sees fit to barge in, then, leaning heavily on his cane—and is that a party hat on his head? What the hell—and announces, apropos nothing, "I cannot bear to be out of your vicinity for one second longer."

Newt practically jumps out of his skin, hand coming up to the spot on his chest right over his heart, croaks, "Shit, dude, you almost gave me a heart attack. Warn a guy next time, maybe?"

Hermann blinks at him slowly, his face doing an approximation of a high dolphin—and what does that even mean, brain? _Your guess is as good as mine_ , it replies, with a mental shrug—and says, more slowly, "Newton. I cannot physically tolerate it." He sounds—puzzled about this, perhaps, which, good, because Newt is just as puzzled as he is.

"Um," Newt replies eloquently. "Okay?"

The other nods at him as if he's confirming something, and takes a step closer to Newt. Newt takes a step back, and the physicist scowls at him. "Newton," he says, enunciating clearly as if speaking to a small child. "Newton. Stop."

Newt lets out a nervous laugh. "Uh, dude, I don't think that's the best idea," he replies, trying to find a way out, but Hermann's blocking the only viable exit. "Look, um, dude, I really don't think touching me is a good idea—"

"Why ever _not?_ " Hermann demands, and Newt grimaces.

"I just don't think it's a good idea, I mean, things are a little bit wonky in my brain at the moment, and—" he makes a helpless gesture—"I would love to, like, hug you right now, man, but, um, I'm getting the sneaking suspicion that that would be highly unpleasant for, if not you, then at least me."

Hermann considers that for a moment. "Oh," he says.

"'Oh' is right," Newt agrees.

They stand there for a few seconds, Newt bracing himself against the sink, Hermann looking kind of lost and listing dangerously to one side, before Newt says, decisively, "Look, dude, I think maybe you should sleep?"

"Hmm," Hermann murmurs, "…perhaps."

Newt nods. "Yeah. Okay, uh, lets's get you back to bed before you collapse and concuss yourself, yeah?" he asks—or, whatever you call that. It's not exactly a question, more of a suggestion, whatever, he can't English right now.

"Can you ever?" Hermann asks drily, and Newt realises, belatedly, that he's said it aloud. Scowls.

They somehow manage to get Hermann back to his bed without touching, Newt hovering at his side, not quite sure what he'll do if Hermann _does_ collapse because physical contact is a glaring, blinking, neon sign of _ABSOLUTELY NOT_ , so, like, it's.

Not ideal.

Whatever, it's.

Whatever.

Newt stays to make sure Hermann doesn't collapse as he climbs into the pathetic excuse for a bed, eyes fluttering shut, then says, to himself, "I'm. Going now. Out the door."

Doesn't.

Leave, that is, because, apparently, that Thing of Hermann's, the proximity thing, is affecting him now too, which is. Weird, because on the one hand he really, really, _really_ cannot deal with human contact but another part _cannot_ stand to deal with being more than like two feet away from Hermann.

He lets out a gusty sigh. At least the floor isn't the worst place he's slept.


	53. 53

**save me a spot**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann is very particular about his routine. Other people taking his parking spot is not part of his routine."**

* * *

For the most part, it's a quiet neighbourhood; the tenants of the various flats are rarely, if ever, around due to various obligations, and when they are, Hermann is on fairly good terms with them.

Except—

 _Except_.

For the past week, _someone_ has been taking the prime parking spot, the one that's in the shade of the large tree that grows out front, the _one that Hermann parks in every day_.

The first day, he grits his teeth and seethes silently, slightly mollified by the thought that whoever it is will surely be gone by the next day. However, the next day—and the one after, and a fourth as well—the black Honda is in _his_ parking spot.

Hermann glares at it, wishing that the very hatred of his gaze could make it disappear.

No such luck; it's there when he gets back from his last class. It's there the entirety of the next day, and that's when, in a fit a fit of rage, Hermann scribbles a note and slaps it under the windshield-wipers.

 _To whom it may concern_ , it reads, in what may as well be chicken-scratch, _kindly remove your car, or I will be forced to take drastic measures._

What sort of drastic measures he would theoretically take, Hermann doesn't know; hopefully, the letter will be enough of a deterrent.

It's not.

It is enough, however, for him to find a sticky-note one the main door, in equally-atrocious penmanship, that says, _yeah, dude, bring it ON_. Hermann scowls, the knuckles of one hand white around the head of his cane, and rips it off viscously, crumpling it into a ball.

The incident doesn't leave his mind for the rest of the day, stewing like a pot on over a flame, and, slowly, he begins to formulate a counterattack.

The next morning, before the sun has even fully risen, the dew still on the grass, Hermann makes his way out of the flat and down the sidewalk, permanent marker in hand, a single objective in mind: revenge.

Carefully, he lowers himself into a kneeling position, bracing against the car for support and breathing a sigh of relief when no alarm goes off. He pulls off the cap of the pen, holding it between his teeth, and begins to draw on the window, spurned by spite—

"Hey!"

Hermann topples over at the shout, landing with a yelp of pain on the pavement. " _Agh!_ " he exclaims as a bolt of pain shoots through his leg, jerking upright, scrambling to try and get his leg out from where it's gotten wedged between the car and the curb.

There's the rapid sound of footsteps, and the man drops to his side, hisses, "Stop moving—you're only going to make it worse!"

Hermann bites back a bitter retort that this is squarely the other's fault; had he not startled Hermann, his leg would be just fine, and tries not to make any further pained sounds.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, Hermann's leg is free, and he slumps down on the pavement, not caring that he's probably getting his clothing filthy. "What, no thank you?" asks the other, and Hermann grunts in reply, and turns his head to get a better view—

The man is dressed in clothing that, Hermann can tell, cost at least three times as much as his own, easily, hair meticulously styled. Hermann hates him instantly.

"I can't believe you were drawing a dick on my car," says the man, sounding more amused than upset. "What are you, twelve?"

"I can't believe you stole my spot and ignored my written request," Hermann shoots back, a note of petulance in his voice that is wholly due to the fact that he's laying on the filthy pavement.

The man lets out a bark of laughter. "Dude!" he exclaims, "that was you? Man, I thought you were cute when I saw you when I first moved in—didn't know you had a temper, though." He grins.

Hermann scowls harder. "I do not. I was simply taking measures to regain my preferred parking spot."

For some reason, that makes the man grin even wider. "Sweet," he says.

Hermann grabs his cane from where it's fallen and brings it, lightning-fast, to crack against the other's shins, getting dust on his trousers, and relishes in the yelp of pain Newt lets out.


	54. 54

**the purrrfect date**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **or: the one where Owen eats Hermann's plants and Newt offers to buy him dinner because he feels guilty and unwittingly goes on a date with his crush."**

* * *

Newt doesn't find out about it until half way through the year; in his defence, he's a bit over-worked, busy grading and grading and more _grading_ , god, how many tests are there to _grade_?

 _You're the only one to blame, since you teach the class_ , points out out his brain, annoyingly logical.

"Oh, shut it," he snaps aloud, throws back the rest of his coffee, eyes sweeping across the living room, and frowns. The flash of dark fur he's grown so used to seeing is missing—odd, since Owen is usually up and whining at him for breakfast by now.

He shrugs. Oh well—he's probably just out on the balcony.

When he gets back from work, Owen is lazing on the couch. "Oh, who's a _good kitty,_ " Newt grins, scrubbing his fingers through the cat's medium-length fur, chuckles when Owen narrows his eyes and makes a grumble of protest—

And recoils as the cat sneezes, spraying him with mucus. " _Eeeeeew_ ," Newt whines, "oh my god you little bastard, you did that on _purpose_ didn't you!"

Owen licks his nose and starts grooming his paw, staring at Newt innocently. Newt sticks his tongue out and flees to the bathroom to wash his face, because cat snot? _Gross_.

Except then, a few days later, he finds Owen on the balcony, which, you know, wouldn't be a big deal if he weren't nibbling on the prized plants of Newt's neighbor, one Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, bane of Newt's academic life, who Newt has maybe a teeny-tiny crush on.

Hermann, Newt's oldest friend who kind of maybe hates him, whose balcony is apposed to Newt's, where Owen is currently calmly munching on— _something_ , Newt's not sure what, but he knows Hermann is going to be _pissed_.

"Oh, shit," he murmurs, staring at the dark feline, slightly in shock, and then again, with more feeling, "oh, _shit_."

This is, of course, when the door on the other balcony slides open and Hermann, in an adorably comically oversized sweater-vest, hair in what is barely moderate kemptness, leaning on his cane slightly, deigns to step out.

For a second, they're both frozen, gazes locked on Owen, who's moved on to one of the ferns, before Hermann hisses, " _Geiszler!_ ", snakes forward, lightning-fast, and tosses Owen over onto Newt's balcony. He draws himself to his full height, face stormy, and hisses, again, "Geiszler—" and stops, apparently at a loss for words, casts a mournful look at the plants before fixing Newt with a glare. "You—"

" _Oh, fuck_ ," Newt exclaims, cutting the other off, grabs his fucking cat— _trash goblin bastard_ —and bolts inside his flat, slamming the balcony door behind him.

After a few hours pass—mostly with him pacing and scolding Owen, in alternates—he collapses onto his sofa, stares at the ceiling, and groans, "What am I supposed to do?"

The ceiling, being a ceiling, doesn't answer, and Newt scowls at it even more petulantly.

The next day, he studiously avoids the math building and spends over an hour at the plant nursery looking for new plants for Hermann, which he carefully arranges into a box, setting it in front of Hermann's door, and rings the bell before disappearing back into his own flat.

Still, even though Hermann's previous frostiness thaws, Newt still feels guilty. It's then, a few days later, that he hits upon a way to fully apologise to Hermann: dinner.

" _Dinner?_ " asks Hermann, voice pitched oddly, sounding a bit strangled. "Dinner—with you?"

Newt rolls his eyes. "Yes, me, Herms, do you see anyone else in the vicinity?"

Hermann purses his lips and makes the face he does when he's deliberating something intensely—which, why? It's just dinner—before he says, "Well, alright then."

"Great!" Newt beams. Hermann returns it, though his expression is indecipherable.

The place they go to isn't anything fancy, and Newt laughs at Hermann when he places the napkin in his lap. Hermann, in turn, mocks Newt for his borderline-obsessiveness with needing to eat his sandwich in a precise way, but it feels—light-hearted.

 _Fun_.

The realisation hits Newt partway through, and he freezes momentarily, because he's known Hermann for years and years and their arguments have been many things—intellectually stimulating, aggravating, steady, but fun is new.

It feels, oddly, fragile.

"Pass me the salt, please," Hermann requests, and Newt snaps out of—whatever that was, grabs the salt and hands it to Hermann. Their fingers brush momentarily, and Newt, for reasons unknown to himself, freezes.

Hermann doesn't, and looks at him quizzically. Newt shakes his head, trying to dispel the mysterious feeling and gives the other a weak grin. Hermann returns it with one of his own—small, the barest uptilt of his lips, but it's _genuine_.

It makes Newt warm, and he clears his throat, trying to covertly tug at his collar, and says something he _knows_ will incite another round of bickering, and by the time it's over, Hermann slightly out of breath and flushed, it's been forgotten.

When they get back to the building, they stop in front of Newt's door first. "Well," Newt says, awkwardly, "this is my stop. Uh…see you tomorrow? Maybe?"

"Er. Yes," Hermann says, not meeting his gaze, bites his lip. "Well." There's a moment of stillness, and then Hermann moves forward, wrapping his arms around Newt, and then strides down the hall, leaving Newt slack jawed.


	55. 55

**this strange feeling**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt's experiencing some strange side-effects post-Drift; side-effects that may have something to do with Hermann."**

* * *

So, in his defence, it's not like he's running around doing things that are humanly impossible. Sure, maybe he _should_ be slightly more effected by the Kaiju Blue he works with on a daily basis, and sure, he probably 'sleeps' less than he should, but come on, they're hurtling rapidly towards the end of the human race. If anyone notices, they don't comment.

"Or I'll be a rockstar!" Newt shouts after Hermann, even though, yeah, that'd kill him if he were human and it'll probably fry his circuitry, but, like, fuck it, they're gonna die anyway, right?

So he Drifts with the cold-cut, which shouldn't be possible, but come on, Newt was a genius even _before_ he transferred his conscious to an artificial body, and now he's less limited by a human body, so, like, he figures out a way to do it.

And then he's jerking on the ground, Hermann's frightened gaze in his face, and then he's off and away and he Drifts again and with _Hermann_ which is great, it's awesome, and Hermann doesn't ask, because he may be a jerk about some things but he's _not_ about things like this.

And then it's all over, which is—

It's somethings. Relief, perhaps—emotions are weird, partially because Newt was so _young_ when he transferred and thus, arguably, not as mature as he looks—or, at least, he hasn't matured the same way everyone else has? Whatever.

So he carries on, does an epic Gottlieb-Geiszler world lecture tour, and then. That's it. It's over. A brief flash of brightness in the void, only to be forgotten a few moments later.

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Hermann snaps, stirring his tea. The bite isn't there, though, the statement—something that would have, in the past, brought a scowl to darken his expression—half-hearted.

Newt pouts. "I almost _died_ for this, Hermann," he whines, "and all I can get is a few seconds of fame?"

Hermann shrugs, directing his gaze back to the book in his lap, and Newt huffs, wandering off to find something to tinker with, shoves aside the fuzzy feeling at the way that the sunlight filtering through the window softens Hermann's features.

The next time it happens, they're bickering again, and Newt pauses, frowning. It passes almost as soon as it's come, and he marks it down as a minor malfunction and resolves to take a look at it later.

It keeps happening, though, and Newt's close to tearing out his hair out in frustration. "Hermann," he says, finally, after three months, because, loathe as he is to admit it, Hermann is the better of the two of them when it comes to engineering and coding, at least in this case. "Hermann, I think I'm malfunctioning."

"What?" Hermann exclaims, lurching forward towards Newt, one hand white-knuckled on his cane, the other making various aborted movements, and his gaze rakes over Newt. "How long? What's happening? Why didn't you say anything—?"

Newt raises his hands in a gesture of surrender at the rapid-fire questions, the taller man practically hyperventilating. "Herms. Dude, _breathe_ ," he reminds the other, "Don't pass out on me."

Hermann scowls at him. "Easy for you to say," he mutters, but does draw in a few deliberate, if shaky breathes.

"And, to answer your questions," Newt continues, ticking each off on a finger as he goes, "four months, give or take a week, hot flashes, and I figured it was just a malfunctioning wire somewhere. Which it isn't," he adds, "I checked. Whatever it is, I can't find it."

Hermann bites his lip. When he speaks, his voice is shaking. "I—I'll take a look."

"Thanks, man," Newt says gratefully.

* * *

"Well," says Hermann, eyes flickering over the tablet-screen hooked up to Newt, mouth in a thin line. "Whatever it is, I'm…not sure what it is. It doesn't seem to be impairing you, so I'm not sure what to do. My apologies, Newton."

Newt sighs, offering a weak smile. "Well, thanks anyway, Hermann."

Hermann unhooks the tablet, setting it on the counter, and fidgets. "I—I'm truly sorry," he says, "I wish that there was something I could tell you—"

"Whatever," Newt waves him off, "I guess if this is what kills me, it's what kills me."

The other scowls at him. " _Newton_ ," he hisses, "please don't _joke_ about such things—"

" _Alright!_ " Newt exclaims, raising his hands in a placating manner. "Shit, dude, look, I'm—I'm sorry, alright? Geez, didn't know you cared that much."

As soon as it's out, he wants to take it back—Hermann's expression is wounded, and he bites out, "I—of _course_ I do, Newton, I've always—I've always… _cared_ for you, Newton."

He falls silent, and Newt swallows—a reflex that serves no purpose—and says, "I…shit, Hermann, I—" he stops, uncertain of how to continue. "I'm—sorry, Hermann," he finishes, lamely.

Hermann gives a small nod. "It's simply that I had thought you were…aware of the fact," he admits.

"Well, I guess you're right about me being an idiot," Newt says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Mind you, I'm never gonna say it again." It works—Hermann's lips twitch up, and Newt fixes the panel on his arm back into place, but, for some reason he can't pinpoint, he can't seem to drag his gaze away from Hermann's smile.


	56. 56

**apple of my eye**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Post-Drift; Newt slowly picks himself back up."**

* * *

The panic doesn't hit him until a few weeks after; he's standing in the lab, alone, the place almost bare, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, he realises, _this is it. This is the end. My field of research—my_ passion— _it's gone. All of it's gone_.

The thought sends him reeling, _shit oh shit what am I going to do_ —and he stumbles back, breath quickening, crumples to the ground. A flash of vibrant ink—his tattoos—

[—pain panic fear oh god oh god _ohgod_ he's going to be eaten by a kaiju he's going to die in a public kaiju shelter the tongue is getting closer and closer glowing bright and terrifying—

—oh nononono _nonono_ shit shit _shit_ he's only just escaped and now he's going to be eaten by a _fetal_ kaiju and he's on the ground legs pulled to his chest shaking no no no—]

He has to—to—

Get away from this. Get it—stop it, he has to stop it, stop his _brain_ he can't deal with this—

He drags in a shaking gasp, tries to breathe, one-two-three, one-two-three—

Finally, his vision stops swimming marginally, though still shot through with electric-blue, but he doesn't stand. He's not honestly sure if he can, right now, so he just shifts so he's not too uncomfortable. Everything is—it's _more_ , pressing in on his senses. Newt squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that it'll pass soon.

When Hermann mentions interviews, Newt—freaks, just a little bit.

A tiny bit.

A lot.

"R—really?" he questions, voice cracking, "o—oh, I—"

Words fail him, and he flounders, tears rising, unbidden, and Hermann frowns at him. "Newton, are—?" and nope nope _nope_ , abort mission. Not good, nope, no way is he going to break down _now_ , in front of _Hermann_ because he can't bear to do that to him, not with the taste of bile in his throat when he found himself seizing on the ground—when _Hermann_ found _him_ , god, this is _trippy_.

"I'm tired," he says, instead, a deflection, he knows Hermann knows too, but the other just purses his lips, obviously unhappy, but allows Newt to leave.

They do do the interviews, eventually; there's no way for Newt to get around it, so he does a bare minimum—four, all of them _with_ Hermann, that's non-negotiable, and Hermann doesn't comment, just fusses over how pale he looks—"Really, Newton, you look _vampiric_ , even in comparison to me—have you even see the light of the sun?" he snaps, but there's no bite to his tone, only concern, thick and heavy like molasses—and covertly rests his hand on Newt's knee when the fidgeting gets too bad, a motion that he knows calms the biologist—

They're rarely ever apart, though it's only partially due to the Drift. "I work better…with you around," Hermann admits to him, late one night, a few months after.

Newt's lips quirk up. "Ditto."

The other huffs at him and Newt knows to duck the hand that comes up to tug his ear before Hermann even moves it. "I still don't get why you do that," he complains, pulling his legs up onto the sofa, pushing the flimsy tea-table away slightly when he bumps it, "and, face it, dude, things like that only re-in—re-" he gives up trying to enunciate the word clearly, says, instead, "they only support the image of you as a stuffy nineteenth-century dude."

He can't see the brow the other's raising at him from where his head is resting, but after all these years, he knows that it is. "I hate you," Hermann says, leans forward to tug a stray strand of hair behind Newt's ear, and nudges the platter on the table. "Eat some fruit you moron, before it all dries out. Strawberries are hard to come by, and the pineapple's only going to get to sour, and then you'll complain to me about _that_ , too."

It startles a laugh out of Newt. "Well, duh," he grins, and ignores the fork sitting on the edge of the plate, grabs a chunk of pineapple with his fingers. "Who else would it be?"

Hermann sighs, soft but fond, and says, "Use the fork, Newton, you're going to get me sick."

"Then I guess I'd be stuck nursing you back to health," Newt retorts. "How terrible—"

Hermann cuts him off, shoving him, hard, and Newt shrieks, almost toppling off onto the floor.

Later, as they lay in bed, Newt's head pillowed on Hermann's shoulder, he lets his mind wander; yes, his tattoos still bring blue-white creeping into his vision; yes, he still refuses to interact with other people more than absolutely necessary, still screams awake from nightmares sometimes, but—

Hermann's there for him, an anchor. He complains about Newt, yes, and he gets in rows with Newt daily, but it's comfortable; safe; reassuring.

[Newt's there for him, too, when he needs it; he'll always be.]

"I can hear you thinking," Hermann murmurs.

"Well, you know me," Newt says.

Hermann huffs. "Shush," he orders, and shifts his arm, twining their fingers together.


	57. 57

**as you wish**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **The Drift reveals certain sentiments—at least to Newt. But they're both too tired to deal with anything until they're better-rested."**

* * *

It's the most inopportune time for such a realisation, of course, Newt's well aware of the fact; but, well, the Drift is the _Drift_ and, thus, nothing's hidden—literally, since they're basically mashing their brains together using Newt's very much built of scraps interface, as well as a dying kaiju brain, but—

Well, it's a bit of a surprise, because, while Newt knows by now that Hermann doesn't _hate_ him, the true magnitude doesn't hit him until later.

If his life were a novel, he thinks, this bit would read something like the iconic passage from _The Princess Bride_ : "On that day," it would read, the writing uniform in the way that Newt simply _isn't_ , "Newt was amazed to discover that when Hermann said 'You're goddamn _stupid_ ', what he meant was 'I love you'. And even more amazingly, it was the day Newt realised he truly loved him back."

Poetic, poetic. Really, that's more Hermann's deal, ironically, what with his whole "poetry, politics, promises" spiel, but the fact remains that it's true.

Somehow, though, he's not surprised; perhaps this is because the Drift has no room for surprise, because surprise means doubt, and the Drift deals only in absolutes. Even less is his surprise at the mutuality of the sentiment, though he wasn't aware of how deep it goes for him before this moment.

Hermann, however, shows no sign of having learnt _any_ of this afterwards, though, to be fair, he looks kind of dead on his feet for the first few hours. "Bed," Newt says, sternly, after LOCCENT erupts into partying, "now. Come on," and tugs Hermann away to his bed.

It takes him a few tries to get the door; they exchanged keys ages ago, so the issue isn't that he has to find Hermann's, but rather that his glasses are cracked and, subsequently, his vision is blurred. "Ugh," he complains, and re-adjusts so Hermann doesn't have to put any pressure on his leg, "your door sucks."

"…our doors are the same," Hermann points out after a moment, speech slow.

Newt shushes him, finally managing to get the door open, and they stumble towards the bed.

Hermann falls into bed with a huff. Nonsensically, he murmurs, "Everything upside…upside-down, Newton. Newt. Did," he pauses. "Did the world end and this is Heaven, Newt? I never thought Heaven would be…more upright."

"Heaven?" Newt asks, falling down on the bed next to him, takes a moment to simply stare at the ceiling, "why'd you think that?"

Hermann shifts so that he's facing Newt, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, the red ring around it barely visible in the dim light. Newt knows that he bears an identical one; both of them are banged up a fair bit, but Hermann still manages to look not nearly as ruffled as he should be. "Why?" Newt asks, again, slower; quieter.

The physicist blinks at him slowly. Newt still thinks of him as a physicist, though perhaps the term no longer encapsulates Hermann—but then, Newt wonders, can any number of words accurately articulate Hermann? He doesn't think so.

"Well," Hermann starts, and then, again, "well. It must surely be Heaven given that you're here with me. Or—if not Heaven, then, surely a dream."

Where he any more well-rested, Newt's heart would be pounding, but as it is, he just hums. "Nope," he replies, "'s real."

"Ah." Hermann considers that for a moment, and then says, "Well."

They lapse into silence, and then, quietly, Hermann says, "Goodnight, Newt."

"…goodnight, Hermann," Newt replies after a moment. After a few seconds, Newt hears Hermann's breathing even out, and, without even realising it, his own falls in sync with Hermann's.


	58. 58

**little thief**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **or: the one where Hermann is dragged along to a party by his colleagues; shenanigans ensue.**

 **Shenanigans that lead to Newt waking up without his microwave anywhere to be found."**

* * *

"Oh," Newt moans, "oh, _ow_."

The light burns his eyes, and he squeezes them tightly. " _Ow,_ " he hisses again, "oh _fuck_ , ow." He drags the covers up further, hiding beneath them, and tries to not cry at the pounding headache.

Finally, he drags himself out of bed, blearily groping around for his glasses, the room wobbling around him. The surroundings finally slide into focus as he slips on his glasses, though his head still pounds and he's slightly shaky as he stands, wincing every so often as he passes through patches of brightness.

Thankfully, though, he's coordinated enough to pull together a decent meal—

—and apparently that's not happening, because where his microwave should be, the counter is bare, a slightly dusty patch of counter the only indication that there was anything there.

"What," Newt says, croakily, staring at the spot, dumbfounded, and then, again, with more feeling, " _what. The fuck._ "

He squeezes his eyes shut and drags in a few calming breaths. Maybe it's just…off to the side a bit, and it'll be there when he opens his eyes. The universe, in stubborn defiance of his wishes, refuses to materialise his microwave.

Newt huffs at it, glares harder. The spot remains microwave-less.

He throws up his hands, then yelps as the motion makes him overbalance, practically toppling onto the floor face-first, only just catching himself, hand clutching tightly at the lip of the counter. "Ugh," he groans, sliding to the cold floor.

A bit later, once he's slightly more cognizant—and has drunk a cup of coffee—he finds his phone and dials Hermann. The phone only rings a few times before, curtly, the other snaps, "What on _earth_ is so important that you must disturb me at this hour?"

Newt grins at Hermann's voice. "Maybe I just wanna say good morning," he says, "unless that's a felony now."

Hermann sighs, but it's softer. "Good morning, Newton," he says. "But really, what is it? You never call before noon unless something terrible has happened."

Okay, fair, but, still. "Alright, alright," Newt says, "you got me. Ugh. I just need someone to whine to. I think someone stole my microwave, dude."

There's a silence, and then, voice oddly strangled, Hermann says, "…what?"

"Yeah, I know, right!" Newt exclaims, "I mean, who the hell steals a _microwave?_ " He lets out a theatrical sigh. "Well, I guess that's what I get for agreeing to host a party. But _still_. What sort of person steals a microwave?"

There's another, longer silence, and Hermann says, very slowly, "Newton, you know that I'm in Boston for a short while, yes?"

Newt blinks despite the fact that Hermann can't see the motion. "…yeah?" he asks, "why? Is this about meeting up? Because I would totally be down for that, but I thought you said we had a scheduling conflict—"

"Well," Hermann says, "well. One of the events I was to attend was cancelled. And a colleague may or may not have roped me into…" he pauses, and Newt gets the impression that he's casting a sheepish look at the ground. "Into coming with them to a party," he continues, "and given that I woke up this morning with a pounding headache and a microwave on my kitchen floor I have no recollection of purchasing, I think it's fair to say we now know two things: whose party I attended last night, and who…stole your microwave."

Neither of them speak for a moment, and then Newt says, in an echo of his earlier words, "What. The. _Fuck_."

Hermann sighs. "I do apologise," he says, "however, you'll be pleased to hear that it has suffered no damage and, having begged off of my obligations for the day, if it is convenient for you, we can finally meet face-to-face, if solely for the purpose of returning your microwave to you."

"Ugh," Newt groans, "you know what, you're lucky I like you."

"I suppose I am," Hermann replies, and Newt imagines that he's smiling slightly. "I do, however, need your address," he says.

"Uh," Newt starts, "dude, no, we can meet up—"

"Absolutely _not_ ," Hermann cuts him off, "you sound—pardon my saying so— _awful_ , Newton. Please, just give me your address and I shall return it to you."

Newt sighs. "Oh, alright," he grumbles.

Forty-odd minutes later, there's a knock on his door. "It's unlocked!" Newt calls from where he's laying on the couch, and winces at the volume.

The door creaks slightly as it opens, and there's the sound of footsteps—muffled slightly by the carpeting.

"Newton?" It's Hermann's voice, unadulterated by the static of a poor connection, and Newt think, _oh, sweet_. "Er. Where should I put the microwave?"

"Eh," croaks Newt, and attempts to wave his hand, only for it to flop down and hang limply over the side of the couch. "Just…put it on the floor or something."

"If that's what you wish," Hermann says, doubtfully. There's a silence, a sigh, and then a thump. From his periphery, Newt can see a pair of slacks and the bottom part of a cane. "Er. Well," Hermann says, and it's in that awkward moment that Newt realises that Hermann has seen _him_ , but _Newt_ hasn't seen _Hermann_.

With a great amount of effort, Newt rolls over so that he can take in the view. "Hermann?" he asks, momentarily stunned. The other—tall, lanky, his clothes slightly oversized, haircut simply _atrocious_ —shifts nervously.

"I, ah, brought you something to eat," Hermann says, not meeting his gaze, and gestures to the collapsable shopping-cart at his side. There's a box in it—"Take-out," Hermann clarifies, "that's why it took me so long."

Newt grins. "Oh, man," he says, "you're like, the best."

Hermann's lips pull into a grin. "I'll go get a fork," he says.


	59. 59

**they were nemeses (** **oh my god they were nemeses!)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann prefers the term _nemeses_ to describe their relationship.**

 **Geiszler, and the media, feel otherwise."**

* * *

Hermann's laying on the hospital bed, scowling at the ceiling. His abdomen is sporting a large gash, one sustained during one of his…extracurricular activities that he'd thought he's bound properly. Apparently not, because partway through a lecture, he'd had a bout of dizziness and the next thing he knows, he's waking up in a hospital.

The wound _itches_ , and he only just resists the urge to scratch it, knowing that that'll only make it worse. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lays back—

"You got me!" The exclamation startles him, and it's followed by a high-pitched laugh. His eyes snap open, a scowl automatically twisting across his features. He props himself up, ignoring the sting of pain—mild, as they've got him on decent painkillers—to see what the commotion is about.

The sight that meets him is—well, it's startling, too say the least. Because there, a dozen or so beds down, is familiar figure. That unruly mop of hair, the flail of limbs, quick and agile, a flash of mischief in forest-green eyes set in a comely face, a cocky swagger in his step as he moves—

 _Newton Geiszler_. Hermann scowls in the man's direction. Oh, he mayn't be doing anything dastardly— _at the moment_. But where Geiszler goes, trouble follows—trouble that, inevitably, requires intervention on the part of the Jaeger.

Still, though, while the man _himself_ may be familiar—one doesn't tussle with a person a few dozen times without learning to recognize them, and besides, Geiszler is the CEO of one of the largest companies in the world—the setting is _not_. And—what _is_ Geiszler doing here?

"Oh, no!" Geiszler exclaims, grounding Hermann in reality, and stumbles back, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, "you've defeated me! Noooo! My evil plan will never come to pass! Darn you, Ser Eliot!"

Hermann blinks, wondering if his eyes are deceiving him—because, well, the person in the bed is a _child_ , no more than seven or eight, and she's _laughing_ , eyes twinkling, and so is _Geiszler_. And then he does something Hermann would never have expected from him—he hugs her.

The girl hugs back tightly.

Hermann lays back down, for which his body thanks him, and wonders if Hell has frozen over. Is Geiszler turning a new leaf, by some miracle, and finally learning human compassion? Or…is it something more sinister?

He resolves to look into it further as soon as he gets out.

* * *

Digging into Geiszler's recent whereabouts reveals less than Hermann would have liked—either he's actually cleaning his act up, or he's just hiding his tracks exceptionally well. Hermann dearly wishes that it were the former, but, well, it's _Geiszler_. He knows which it's more likely to be.

None of this, however, prepares him to coming home from his classes for the day and unlocking the door to his flat to find one Newton Geiszler sprawled languidly on his couch. Startled, he drops his keys—and his cane, the items clattering to the ground. After a moment, he retrieves them, and spits, " _Geiszler_. What are you—what are you doing in my _home?_ "

The other pouts. " _Geiszler?_ " he complains, "c'mon, Herms, don't be a _stranger_ —it's me, your pal. Newt." He stretches, somehow finding a way to drape himself even further across the poor piece of furniture, and Hermann's scowl intensifies.

" _Geiszler_ ," he says again, " _what_ are you _doing_ in my _home?_ "

"Mmm, wouldn't _you_ like to _know_ , Hermann?" Geiszler teases, a slow smile replacing the previous pout. "Maybe I just wanted to _see_ you."

"I have office hours," Hermann retorts.

"Alright, alright. Well—it's come to my _attention_ you've been doing some _digging_ on yours _truly_."

Hermann strides over to the couch, draws himself to his full height, hoping that he looks at least slightly intimidating. "Here to kill me, then, for having found out something you don't want anyone to know?" he asks.

That brings the other to a halt, his smile transforming into a frown. "Kill you—? Hermann, I've never killed anyone!"

"Tell that to the participants of your various programs," Hermann says sharply.

Geiszler sucks in a breath, and when he speaks, Hermann can hear what might be called a tinge of sorrow— _if_ Geiszler where able to feel such an emotion. "They signed waivers," he says quietly, "and as tragic as their deaths were, they _were_ willing participants."

"Oh, I'm _sure_ they were," Hermann says, "and I'm sure the threats made against them and their families had nothing to do with it."

A muscle twitches on Geiszler's jaw. "That," he says slowly, "was an unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Whatever you say," replies Hermann.

The other lets out a huff. " _God_ , why are you _like_ this?" he complains, "fucking—look, dude, I'm—sorry, okay? I get that you don't like me—"

"You had a room dedicated to me! Full of photographs and news clippings!" Hermann exclaims. "I thought you were my friend! But no—you were just another person who wanted to figure out who I was and—and _capture and experiment on me!_ You're no better than my _father_ , Newton _Geiszler_."

"You—" Geiszler cuts himself off, rising and shoving past Hermann. "Fuck _you_ ," he hisses, and slams the door behind him as he leaves, shoulders tense.

* * *

"Wait," Vanessa says the next day over lunch in Hermann's office, "he did— _what?_ You're telling me that you—you—" she pauses, stares at him wordlessly for a moment, and then continues, slightly strangled, "you came back to find _Newton Geiszler_ in your flat and you didn't—call the police?"

Hermann takes another bite of his sandwich, trying to put off answering for as long as possible, but, inevitably, has to swallow; evenly, he says, "I…was too startled."

Vanessa raises a brow. " _Sure_ ," she drawls, "that's _totally_ what it was."

"If you're trying to imply something, I don't appreciate it," Hermann says stiffly, "whatever we… _may_ have had in the past is a distant memory."

"So distant that you didn't call the cops on him when he broke into your apartment," says the other drily. Hermann's cheeks heat, and she smirks at him. "Hermann, I've known you since we were kids," she points out, "I _know_ you. And I know that you're _still_ pining after him."

"I am _not!_ " Hermann protests hotly, "I just have…lingering sentimentalities."

Vanessa's smirk widens.

Hermann sighs. "I hate you," he says, but it lacks any weight, and they both know it.

* * *

It is, however, slightly troubling when a few months later, Hermann's called upon to deal with one of Geiszler's plots, and—

"A horde of killer robots?" he shouts, "really? Did you learn nothing from last time?"

Geiszler, perched atop a huge, vaguely raptor-shaped robot—the dinosaur kind, sadly, a la _Jurassic Park_ , no the bird—ignores him and drives the robot forward, demolishing a building in the process, and Hermann dives to the side, barely avoiding getting crushed beneath a piece of the debris. He scowls, switching the suit's thrusters on with a thought, and rockets upwards, towards the genius, who's grinning, wild-eyed, and—yes, he _is_ cackling maniacally.

Hermann resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Geiszler finally notices him. "Jaeger!" he exclaims, "finally! I thought you'd forgotten about little old me—" and there, he's cut off, because Hermann catches him off-guard, rocketing forward and grabs him.

Without its pilot, the robot halts mid-motion. Hermann takes a second to hope that it doesn't topple over, and alights upon the ground, slamming the shorter man up against a wall, forearm pressed against Geiszler's throat just enough to impede his breathing. " _What_ the _hell are you up to,_ Geiszler?" Hermann snarls. "Luring me into a miniature reconstruction of Boston—"

"Maybe I just got bored and wanted attention, Jaeger," Geiszler says petulantly, "and it's not _actually_ Boston, so no one got hurt and I didn't destroy any actual buildings—"

"You _held my ca hostage to force me to follow you!_ " Hermann snaps, "and you incited mass panic when you disappeared!"

Geiszler approximates a shrug, as much as he can in his current position, and winces when Hermann presses the arm harder against his throat. " _Ow_ ," Geiszler complains, and Hermann loosens his hold slightly, which is—

Geiszler lunges for his jugular—literally—teeth bared, and Hermann snaps back, even though Geiszler can't get at it through the armour. Geiszler drags him down, snarling, and, bizarrely, laughing.

* * *

 **_FORBIDDEN ROMANCE: ARE JAEGER AND GEISZLER SECRETLY DATING?_ **

**_Dear readers, we have exciting news! For almost a decade, our city's most recognizable hero, Jaeger, has kept civilians safe from a variety of threats. His rivalry with Doctor Newton Geiszler, CEO of Kaiju Tech, is well known—the two are vocal enemies. But what if it's just an act?_ **

**_We have it from anonymous sources that recently, Jaeger has taken pains not to give the genius more than a few scratches when they tumble—guilty consciousness? Or…something else entirely?_ **

**_Something…more secret?_ **

**_More_ ** **romantic?**

 **_Could it be that the infamous Doctor Geiszler has finally found love—and with his greatest 'rival'?_ **

**_Well—we wish them the best!_ **

* * *

"Aww," Geiszler croons the next time they run into each other while Hermann's on the job, "you could have at least bought me a _drink_ first."

Hermann gives him a startled look, and practically squeaks, " _What?_ "

The smile on Geiszler's face grows. "Next week, nine o'clock at the _Shatterdome?_ " he proposes, and Hermann splutters for a moment before he drags Geiszler off of the ground, cuffing his hands behind his back.

 _(Carefully.)_


	60. 60

**teeth**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** _ **This time, Hermann's standing when they get to the waiting-roomesque area. His hair is a bit longer, almost enough to be considered bangs, and bruise-like shadowing beneath his eyes—**_

 _ **Doesn't worry Newt.**_

 _ **It should.**_

 **Post-Uprising; how the PPDC deals with _Newt_ and how Newt deals with no longer being under the control of an alien hive-mind."**

* * *

It starts with an experiment; the recorder in his hand, voice hushed; face illuminated by the yellow-green glow of the fluid in the tank. The phantom feel of seizing on the floor, of bleeding, once, then again is still fresh on his mind but he has to _know_.

Newt is a scientist, after _all_ ; this is what he was born for. The scent of electricity and formaldehyde, tinged with an edge of sweat and fear—all these are like an old friend to him, and he welcomes them, plunges deeper and deeper, driven by a borderline-manic need to _know_.

He presses the button, makes a few adjustments to the pons headset. "Kaiju-human Drift, take—three," he says, high and nearly breathless. "Just me this time—I've done some fine-tuning to the interface so I don't fry my brain or…or end up like the first time."

He pulls in a breath—imagines, for a moment, what will happen if someone barges into his room _now_ , sees him poised on the brink of Drifting with a kaiju brain. They'll send him to medical, at the least, seize his the brain and destroy it, probably.

The thought makes him growl—low, almost inaudible, and he blinks, surprised at his own reaction. Shrugs it off—must be sleep deprivation.

Clears his throat, adjusts the pons one last time. "Initiating neural handshake in…three…two…one—"

The Drift—

—is _large_ , is the first thought that hits him, once he can form thoughts again. It's big—big in the inconceivable way that the concept of _eternity_ is big to the human mind; he simply has no frame of reference—doubts, for that matter, that _any_ human has an adequate one.

He rushes through memories, syrup-slow—both his own and that of the hive-mind's, watches as the kaiju masters evolve from a peaceful society a few billion years back—Earth time, anyway, because he gets the distinct impression that time…doesn't— _didn't_ function the same over in the Anteverse—before a—

—"Schism."

He pulls off the headset, picks up the recorder from up off of the ground from where it fell from his limp fingers, and swallows. "Schism," he says again, more clearly, "or—I think it was. Like a…civil war? and the group that came out on top were" the—the—the—oh, damn it, what's the word? They were the more violent—more bloodthirsty—ugh, _warlike_ , that's the word—ones."

He opens his mouth, unsure of when he stopped talking, about to continue, because it's _fascinating_ —

—and realises he can't _remember_ any more.

" _Fuck_ ," he hisses emphatically. He can't exactly go for another round right now, not with how fragile his neural state probably is, but he _has_ to know _more_.

He clicks the recorder off and drags in a deep breath, pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Tomorrow," he promises himself, "just one last time. For _science_."

* * *

The next Drift isn't _tomorrow_ because he has to run some tests for another Science Thing™, but time's an illusion, so whatever, who even _cares_.

It is, however, _electrifying_.

He gets back to his own room, tired beyond measure, practically falls face-first onto the floor on the way in, and blinks awake when he sees the headset on his desk.

 _It's a monumentally stupid idea_ , says the voice in his head that sounds startlingly like Hermann.

"Shut it," he mumbles, and hooks the headset up, drags the brain closer to the bed so that he can lay back as he Drifts.

 _Newton_ , warns pseudo-Hermann, but Newt's already pushed the button in that fraction of a second, his vision blurring into electric white-blue.

He gasps—it feels like someone just gave him a shot of caffeine straight to the brain. It feels _good_.

There's a niggling sense of _doubt_ , of _this feels wrong_ , but he pushes it aside and sinks into the Drift.

* * *

"Newton?" Hermann's voice startles him, and he blinks. Is that… _worry_ edging his tone? "Perhaps you should sleep," Hermann suggests. His eyes are wide, and his hand is hovering over Newt's arm, almost touching, but—not _quite_.

For a second, Newt wants to gouge his eyes out. It passes just as quickly as it came, though, and he frowns. "Nah, I'm fine."

The other presses his lips into a thin line. "Newton, you haven't slept in three days. I worry—"

" _Don't._ I'm _fine_ ," Newt snaps, louder than he intends to, hard and sharp, and Hermann takes a step back, face shuttering.

"Alright," he says, and turns, walking out, leaves Newt _alone_ in the lab.

* * *

Drifts _six_ and _five_ are consecutive. He's hit a rough spot in an experiment, and nothing seems to be working no matter what he does, makes him want to scream and pull his hair out.

He can practically feel Hermann's worried gaze. "You need _rest_. You look _awful_ ," says the physicist, perched atop his ladder.

"Wow, _thanks_ ," Newt snipes back. "As if you look any better."

When he turns to look, though, Hermann's facing Newt, chalk not scratching on the board but hanging limply from the arm at his side. Newt lets out a wordless groan and pulls off his glasses, revels, for a moment, in the burning sensation that ensues. "Can't," he replies, "there's work to be done and—"

" _Newton_." The way Hermann says it brings him to pause—was exasperation always tinged with fondness?

Hermann clambers down the ladder, strides over to his side. "Newton," he says again, soft, puts a hand on Newt's shoulder. "Please take a break. I say this as your… _friend_ , Newton. You're running yourself ragged—there's no need to, not now. The world isn't ending anymore."

"…alright," Newt says, slowly, after a moment of silence, and the tension in Hermann's shoulders loosens, his hand on Newt's arm now, and gives a brief squeeze. Smiles.

"Take care of yourself," he says. For a second, it looks like he wants to say more, but he stops.

Newt offers a weak thing of a smile in return—more of a tug at his lips—and rises, brushes past Hermann.

Somehow, between dragging himself out of his clothes and into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth and crawling into bed, he hooks himself up again, mind too tired to voice a protest as the pons, not quite situated properly, digs into his skin.

For a second, everything bursts into white-hot, electrifying colour, intoxicating, and he drags in a ragged breath—

—and blinks as he falls back to reality, vaguely nauseous and wholly disappointed, and before he can even think, he presses the button again.

This time, the rush is instantaneous, and he floats through memories of the hive-mind, his own finally slowed enough that he can concentrate and appreciate what he's _seeing_.

The next morning, he's in the lab earlier than Hermann, earbuds jammed in and singing silently along to the lyrics.

He doesn't even notice Hermann's come in until a piece of chalk hits his head, and he whirls around, scowling.

 _Take out your earbuds_ , Hermann mouths, miming the motion.

"No can do," Newt retorts, "it's my victory music. I just had a breakthrough, Herms, finally! You can't make me turn off my _victory music_."

Hermann sighs, soundless, and turns back to his equations, but Newt catches the faint smile that tugs at his lips before he turns his back.

* * *

After that, he Drifts whenever he hits a seemingly insurmountable problem. The Drift slows down his brain enough that he can think, can focus on one thought at a time and follow it through instead off bouncing from one to another rapid-fire, never able to stick with a single thought except obsessively.

 _Is this what a normal brain feels like?_ He wonders, spread-eagle on the floor, thoughts pleasantly slow and steady. It's… _nice_.

And then, half a year later—

* * *

"What happened half a year later?" asks his psychiatrist, sat across from him in a comfortable-looking chair, no longer jotting down notes on the legal pad.

"Drift fourteen," Newt replies tonelessly. He's not even fidgeting anymore—not that he could much before, given he's restrained at the ankles and wrists.

She seems to sense the change almost instantaneously. "What happened?"

Newt runs his tongue over too-sharp teeth, for a moment contemplating how best to answer, and finally says, simply, "I don't know."

He doesn't speak for the rest of the session.

* * *

Hermann's waiting for him in the hallway when he gets out; it takes them six months to allow him to move around of his volition; a further nine to tentatively—and under armed guard—allow him to leave the cell.

Two years total. Or at least, that's what they tell him—Newt-that-was never had much of an internal clock, and Newt-that-is can barely remember he's human at times, so all he knows, it could have been two days or two decades.

They've at least had the decency to give him socks—white, almost blinding, the same as the straight-jacket, but the cold of the concrete still seeps through them.

He doesn't shiver. Anyone else would—he thinks Newt-that-was would too, complain about it, voice high and scratchy but.

He doesn't.

"Doctor Gottlieb," says one of the guards, even tone betraying nothing. The magazine Hermann's holding lowers, and Newt sees—truly _sees_ —his face for the first time in over a decade.

 _He's still got that stupid haircut,_ is his first thought, and it should probably be fond, but it feels more like a statement of fact than anything else. Quickly following is a wave of resentment—his, or lingering from the Precursors, he doesn't know.

Does it even matter, though, whose it is? He's still the one who's thinking it.

Hermann takes his cane from where it's propped against the wall and rises. His steps are sure and steady, only faltering once he's within arm's reach of Newt.

Newt stares at him, even though Hermann's reluctant to meet his gaze. "Newton," he says, quiet. Newt lets the sound roll around inside his mind.

"Hermann," he returns plainly.

"Walk with me?" It's phrased as a question, but it's not, and Newt turns awkwardly to follow after Hermann, who's brushed past the guards and begun walking down the hall. The guards move to follow, but Hermann snaps, " _Leave_ us."

"But Dr. Gottlieb, he's a—"

"Threat?" Hermann exhales sharply; he's not facing them, but his shoulders are tense, enough to be noticeable. "He's trussed up like a bloody _chicken_ and severely malnourished—I doubt there's much he could do to me. Your lot have seen to _that_."

One of the guards lets out a discomfited noise, obviously unhappy at Hermann's words. Newt doesn't move; waits to see what will happen.

"…alright," says the other guard grudgingly. "Geiszler, if anything happens…" she trails off. Newt smiles—an involuntary action, not reaching his eyes, and watches dispassionately as the guards, eyes lowered, slink away.

"Newt _on_ ," Hermann calls, impatient, "hurry, we haven't got all day."

That, Newt can do. Orders are easy—straight and to the point, don't have the messy edges like emotions do. Newt falls in step.

There's silence for a moment, and then Hermann says, eyes still fixed on a middle-distance, "How are you?"

"I…" Newt pauses. "Alive," he settles on. " _I'm_ …alive."

"Good," Hermann says. "That's good."

"Is it _though?_ " The words tumble out without thought for the first time in a considerable while.

Hermann stops and turns to face him. The expression on his face is similar to anger, Newt thinks, but not. Not _quite_. "Of _course_ it is," he says, and Newt might be imagining it, but he sounds a bit hoarse.

It gives Newt pause, and he runs the words through his head. _Odd_ , he realises, the words feel _odd_. It's been so long since he's actually [been able _to_ ] pause and consider emotions—his or anyone else's.

Oh, sure, _fear_. But even that becomes muted when you feel it 24/7 for a decade. Anger, perhaps, but he's not sure what the Precursors were… _feeling_ was anger, exactly. More of an all-consuming need to crush the inferior species that had destroyed most of their planet—most of their species.

To them, emotions are weak—a means to manipulate. He's not quite sure how to feel about that, in the end, so he just says, "That's…nice _of_ you to _say_ , even if you're the only one to think that _way_."

Hermann frowns at him. They're standing in the middle of the hallway—Hermann, leaning heavily on his cane, the lines on his forehead and on his brow more prominent than Newt remembers, turned just enough that he's almost facing Newt, the straight-jacket suddenly tighter than he remembers it being.

Almost. _Almost_ , he thinks, _but not quite_.

" _How_ are you?" Newt asks, a desperate attempt to cut off a further line of questioning. "How's _the_ —" he flounders, still unused to the need to choose his own words, say them without interference. "—job?" he tries. "Girlfriend? Life?"

It does the trick—Hermann's gaze finally snaps up to meet his and—is that _defiance?_ —says, cooly, evenly, "Life…is."

Newt-that-was, he realises, would press for more—pester and wheedle until Hermann either tells him or stalks off in a huff, but.

He doesn't _care_ , really, and _that—_

That _should_ frighten him. Instead, he just registers _disinterest_. Disembodiment, too, to a certain degree, like an out-of-body experience—knows how he _should_ feel, how _he_ should act, but—

Can't.

Silent for too long, apparently—Hermann's gaze drops, whatever scant openness there was disappearing in an instant. Newt mourns the loss.

Almost.

"We should get back," he says, tilting his head side to side and relishing at the firecracker-like _crack_ s that result. The sound makes Hermann flinch—barely there unless one is looking for it, which.

Is he?

Still, though, Hermann nods. "Quite right."

The walk back is slow, silent. Newt suspects that the silence might be awkward for the physicist, but, as much as he _should_ care—to try and remedy it, even—he doesn't.

The guards eye him warily when they get back, raking Hermann's figure—checking, most likely, for signs of harm.

New ones, anyway.

He imagines, for a moment, faded imprints that peak out from beneath Hermann's collar. The thought brings up a roiling mass of _something_ in Newt—something that isn't fear or guilt or grief as he wishes it were—knows it should be.

The something tastes—uncomfortably comfortably—like fascination; like the heady scent of power.

Before they take him back to his cell, Hermann presses a hand to his cheek—ignores the guards' protests. "Stay safe," he says.

Newt isn't sure how to reply. Crack a pithy remark, perhaps, examine that puzzling spark in Hermann's eyes as he says it—but regardless, the choice is taken away from him as he's hustled off to his cell.

* * *

This time, Hermann's standing when they get to the waiting-roomesque area. His hair is a bit longer, almost enough to be considered bangs, and bruise-like shadowing beneath his eyes—

Doesn't worry Newt.

It should.

This time, the guards don't protest as Hermann dismisses them—a quick jerk of his head and they're gone.

"They _gave_ me thicker socks _this_ time," Newt says conversationally, part of him wanting to shift from foot to foot, but he remains still.

Hermann tips his head. "That's good," he says, "last time I saw you, you looked a bit cold.

There's a pause—an opening, an expectation that he'll add more, but Newt says nothing. Hermann shifts, clears his throat. "They tell me you're doing better." Hermann's speaking softly, and that—

" _I_ don't know," Newt says, and his voice cracks. "I _don't_ —I don't _know_ , Hermann, I—" he's breathing rapidly, now, breath whistling.

Hermann's eyes widen. "Newton—Newton—!" He sounds—panicked, Newt thinks, and—

There's a hand gripping his shoulder, grounding—Hermann's, he realises; could cry at that.

 _Is_ crying.

And that is—it's _relieving_. Relieving that he _can_ even cry, can _react_. That there's enough of him that's still _human_ to cry.

He leans into Hermann's touch, tears streaking down his cheeks, unseeing as he stares ahead, and Hermann draws him into an embrace—one-armed, but his fingers dig into the fabric of the straight-jacket.

When he drags in a breath—slow and hitching slightly before it evens out, Hermann says, barely audible, "It's alright, Newton. It's going to be alright."

"That's _a_ lie," Newt whispers, face pressing into the crook of his neck, the salty tang of blood on his tongue—he's biting his cheek, he notes faintly, teeth digging into the soft flesh.

He breathes out, more even. "Thank you."

Hermann murmurs something too quiet to hear, rubbing comforting circles on his back.

* * *

Some sessions, Newt barely speaks at all; lets the silence stretch whilst Dr. Hawke asks him questions. Answers with a barely-there nod or shake of his head.

Other times, he talks. A lot. Stares at the unadorned walls as he speaks, words spilling out, and he wonders how long it's been.

At least they've given him a decent chair, now—one that he can sit in without his feet touching the floor, hands in his lap.

Cuffed.

Usually, it's a mix of the two extremes—sometimes listing one way or the other, but not a lot.

Not enough. Almost, but.

Not quite.

The skitter of the ballpoint on paper is still gratingly loud, though. "I don't know who I am _anymore_ ," he says in an attempt to black it out. It's the truth, though, or as true as he knows.

She catches his gaze for a fleeting second, reading glasses low on the bridge of her nose. "Do you know who you're _not?_ " she counters, and he thinks on it for a moment. Nods. "Let's start there, then," she suggests. "Who are you not?"

"A _nice_ person," he starts, because it's the easiest. She gives him a Look. "…the same as I was," he says, eventually.

The unsaid _And that is…?_ hangs there, and he resists the urge to bat it away. "Optimistic," is the first, and following it, "adjusted. Well-connected _with_ …my own emotions."

"Can you elaborate on that?" she asks—not gently, because that never works to do anything than make him feel pitied, but. Not unkindly.

"I _know_ who I was, _and_ …" he pauses, tries to find the words. "It…the Precursors fucked me up pretty bad, to the point where I don't even register a lot of the stuff they did— _that_ I _did_ —as…horrifying, because at this point, I'm just so…desensitised. And… _I_ hate that. I hate that _I_ don't feel anything—I hate myself for that."

It leaves him feeling ragged, having said it out loud. Like an open wound.

"I'm not going to tell you that's normal," she says frankly. The skitter of ballpoint on paper has finally stopped, but Newt's paying more attention to what she's saying. "You have a great deal of trauma, and it'll take you years—maybe even the rest of your lifetime—to figure it out. But the fact that you recognise that—that you're aware that it's abnormal and that you _want_ to feel something other than uncaringness when it comes to the horrible things you were forced to do is a sign that you're getting better."

He offers a weak smile—doesn't feel _better_ , exactly, but maybe…more at peace. Just a little bit.

"You're human, Newt," Dr. Hawke says, "never forget that."

* * *

The first time Hermann offers, Newt seriously considers the idea that one or both of them are on drugs.

"Come live with me," Hermann offers. "We can get a flat and do a lecture tour."

It's a few months after Operation: Pitfall and their joint Drift; a few days after Newt's third. The sunset is a bloody red-orange as it dips below the horizon, casting shadows with the half-picked-clean corpse of Otachi, and a bit further, Baby Otachi.

Newt stares at him; blinks. The idea of Hermann discovering the brain runs through his mind, brings up the taste of bile. "You're kidding, right?"

"Oh," says Hermann, stares off at the traffic in the road below.

"We'd kill each other," Newt scoffs, and scoots up closer to the edge, dangles his legs over the side of the roof.

Hermann drops the subject.

The second time he asks, they're standing in the damn waiting-room-slash-hallway area, and Newt's still handcuffed, though they've afforded him the luxury of shoes.

"I guess I'll have to figure out a place to stay," Newt says, to try and fill the silence. "I'm not sure what happened with my bank account, or what they told the public…"

"You could stay with me," Hermann offers. "When—when you get out. If you want. Or—or I can arrange some other accommodation, if you'd prefer. I could probably call in some favours and find you a place closer to the luxury you've grown accustomed to—"

"Well, unless you consider bare walls and straight-jackets luxuries, I think I'll pass," Newt says, drily, the edge of humour surprising the both of them. "No, I—" he sighs. "I don't really care, honestly; they're going to get someone to monitor me anyway, and—whatever."

Hermann peers at him searchingly. "Newton, do you truly believe that?" he asks softly. "That you will be under constant observance?"

Newt blinks at him, slow, runs his tongue over his teeth—habit, he thinks, formed during a decade where the Precursors thought that flashing a hint of too-sharp incisors would disturb those who saw it. They weren't wrong. "Why _wouldn't_ they?" he asks at length, " _what_ assurance _do_ they have that proves _without_ a doubt that I wouldn't try something like that again?"

The other scowls at him. "What evidence do they have that you _will?_ " he counters. "No—they've kept you locked up and under guard for almost three years. For the past six months, your brain scans have been showing that you're back to human baseline. They have no reasonable excuse to keep you for _any_ longer, Newton."

"I…" there's a lump in his throat, and he swallows heavily. Says, voice thick, "I…I want to go to a park, Hermann. I don't care where I wind up living, I just—I want to be able to go for a walk. I haven't—" _Haven't taken a walk in so long_ , he means to say, _a walk that I actually had any control over_ , but the words stick, refusing to pass his lips.

Hermann's smile is relieved, if small. "Alright," he says, "that—yes, I can arrange that."

"Okay." Newt lets out a breath. "Okay."

* * *

 _I haven't seen you in years_ , reads the text on his screen; the bright neon lights on the buildings shine through the floor to ceiling windows of his penthouse, tint the phone screen green-purple-blue. He gives it one last cursory glance before returning to his work.

Shao's got him working on the designing of the interface for her drone Jaegers. Yeah, maybe it wasn't what he was _hired_ for, but that hardly matters—anyone will do practically anything if you throw enough money at them, and the Precursors are no exception.

He wants to reply, at least for a moment, before the impulse is overtaken by the buzzing _irritation_ at the message that pops up on his laptop. It's the progress-report for his experiment—kaiju-cloning, strictly hush-hush. He's still having issues keeping the cells stable—probably something to do with the fact that kaiju are silicon-based organisms, but that doesn't temper the brittle edge of anger.

" _Human error,_ " he hisses, "god, _fuck_ humans, really. They suck."

That's true—humans _do_ suck. "Look at what _they're doing_ to the _environment_ ," he huffs, "really, we'll be doing the rest of the world a _favour_ by killing off the humans."

He sighs. It would be nice not to have to do it in perfectly-fitted suits and douchey-looking red sunglasses, but whatever.

Well, he's going to have to call up the cleaners tomorrow; the carpet'll probably get pretty bloody in a bit.

His phone buzzes again. Hermann.

 _I miss you_.

He scoffs. If he wanted Newt that badly, he'd be on a plane to Shanghai.

* * *

The first day out of the cell, Newt spends most of hiding in the apartment Hermann's procured for him, the lights dim, blinds half-drawn, wearing sunglasses. The sunlight is too much without them, even if wearing them brings up the memories of sitting in front of a computer screen, eyes burning as he writes line after line of code to program the drones to open up another Breach.

The second day, Hermann stops by. He brings Newt's old glasses with him—the clunky black frames slightly bent, the tips grey-white from where Newt would stick them in his mouth and chew on the ends, deep in thought.

Newt squints at him from under the thick blanket he's hiding under, not yet ready to try and face…anything, really, perfectly content to lay beneath the comforting warmth. "Did you really bring me a pair of glasses that is at least two times weaker than my current prescription?" he asks flatly. "And the ends are chewed up."

"Yes, well," says Hermann, "I figured I should do something with them, given that they've been sitting on my desk for the last four or so years, and I don't particularly want to throw them out, given that they're yours."

 _Oh_ , Newt thinks, and. "Um."

The silence lingers between them, and then Newt says, "Uh. I think I have something in the fridge if you want to make a sandwich or something."

"I think I'll pass," Hermann replies, "unless you want to eat something."

"No thanks," Newt says, "I'm pretty good where I am."

* * *

" _Fuck_ ," Newt says, "I tried to _end the human race_."

It's a Thursday, and he's brought himself to put on a new change of clothes and eaten something within the last twelve hours when it finally hits him, in true. Makes him stumble, dragging in air like he's suffocating, and—it _feels_ like it.

 _Hermann_ , he thinks, through the haze, _I need Hermann_.

With monumental effort, he digs through his pockets and fumbles with his phone, unlocking it, and navigates to the contacts.

The phone rings twice before he picks up. "Newton?" Newt doesn't answer, tries to breathe through the panic.

"Newton!" He sounds—alarmed, that's the word. "Newton, are you—are you alright? Can you—can you breathe with me?" Newt nods, shaky, even though Hermann can't see it; Hermann apparently anticipated it, though. "Alright," he says, edged just the slightest bit with fear, "alright. Breathe with me, Newton."

 _In, out. Deep breathes._

Time passes—Newt's breathing finally, finally evens out, no longer gasping and frantic. He closes his eyes. "Newton?" Hermann asks softly, "Newton, are you still there?"

"Y—yeah," he replies, scratchy, cracks at the start of the word, and begins again. "Yeah, I'm—I'm here."

Hermann sighs deeply—relief. "Would you like me to come over?"

"It's— _late_ ," Newt protests, instead of his instinctual, _God, yes, please._

There's a second of silence, and then the rustle of fabric on fabric. "I'll be over in a bit," Hermann promises. "Just—" there's another silence, and when Hermann speaks again, he sounds _afraid_ , almost. "Keep safe. _Please_."

The line goes dead before Newt can answer, and he sits there on the floor, phone pressed to the ear, knees pulled up to his chest, and squeezes his eyes shut, counts to one hundred and then back to zero.

When Hermann gets there, Newt's half out of it, still, silently murmuring numbers, and Hermann looks—

 _Frightened_. His hand's on Newt's shoulder, and he's leaning over, and why does this feel _familiar—_

Oh. "'m _not_ dying," he says, blearily, "Hermann, I—I'm alright, it's okay. I'm not—look, I'm not bleeding, see?"

It takes a moment for the panic to fade from Hermann's eyes, and when it does, he drags Newt up and into an embrace, a broken little noise muffled in the fabric of Newt's shirt. For a moment, Newt thinks _This is bizarre,_ but then, normalcy is relative, he thinks.

Hermann pulls back, hands smoothing over the wrinkles and pulling the shirt down where it's been rucked up, gaze searching. "What happened?"

"I—" Newt's breath catches, gaze flicking away from Hermann's, and he swallows. "I killed people, Hermann—"

"That was _not_ you," Hermann snaps, "that was the _Precursors_ —"

"No, you don't _understand_ ," Newt says, voice trembling. "That wasn't—it wasn't just the drones, Hermann. There were others—people who they saw as loose ends. Flaws in the plan. People who might have said something about what I was doing—how do you think I learned to shoot, Hermann?"

Silence; Newt doesn't dare look, turns away, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, waits.

Expects something other than for Hermann to move so he can look him in the eye, press a hand to his cheek. His lip is quivering, Newt notes, eyes tearbright, and Newt starts, "I—"

"I'm so, so sorry that happened to you," Hermann says, hand cold on Newt's cheek, and Newt shivers, leans into the touch.

"I—I don't know," Newt says, "I don't—I don't know how to…how to deal with it, Hermann, I—"

He closes his eyes and drags in a breath and leans back against the wall. Hermann draws his hand back, but he shifts closer. "You don't have to," he says quietly. "No one can reasonably expect you to, Newton. You're only human—"

"Am I though?" The bitterness doesn't come through, really, exhausted as he suddenly is. "You've seen the blood labs, the teeth. Can I even be defined as _human_ at this point?"

" _Fuck you,_ Newton Geiszler," Hermann hisses, and Newt opens his mouth to bite back a scathing retort, but Hermann plows on. "You—you _are_ human. _Painfully_ so. I'm not willing to sit here and listen to you _doubt_ one of the most _intrinsic_ things about yourself."

The words leave Newt winded. "You don't mean that—"

"I _do_." Hermann's glaring at him, now, but Newt gets the distinct sense that he's not angry _at_ Newt, exactly. "Then, softer, he says, "I'm not capable of lying to you anymore, Newton. Never to you."

When he breathes, the breath whistles through his teeth, and he closes his eyes, slumping. In that instant, he looks—vulnerable. The façade of controlled calmness and surety he always projects drops away, and he looks—

 _Tired._ Young, far too young. _This is the price we pay_ , Newt thinks grimly. He should say something comforting, but instead, he says, "You should get up and take some painkillers. Your leg's going to hurt from having kept it in that position."

"I should," Hermann agrees, but he doesn't move. "And you should eat something and put on a shirt that isn't soaked with sweat. And probably sleep—I can see the shadows under your eyes."

Newt bites his cheek, almost hard enough to draw blood, but.

Not quite.

"I'll do that if you let me get you a cup of water and some ibuprofen," he bargains. When Hermann looks about to protest, he weakly holds up a hand. "No arguing," he says.

"What is this, a dictatorship?"

"Yes. Now stay there while I go get you pain meds."

 _Food_ winds up being a grilled cheese sandwich. Hermann manages to not comment on that, but if he actually _did_ have laser vision, the sandwich would be dust.

The tricky bit, it turns out, is the shirt.

Namely, that he can't find one that he likes.

"It's a _shirt_ ," Hermann says, exasperated, "no one's going to see you—you're wearing it to _bed._ Please, just choose one before I give in to the urge to strangle you."

" _Harsh_ ,"Newt says, and pushes aside another hanger. "Oh! There we go."

The shirt is faded—black, originally, it now looks grey in some spots, the lettering and image printed on it peeling, a few letters gone entirely so that it says _la k Vel e Rab._ Hermann raises a brow. "You made _t-shirts?_ " he asks bluntly.

Newt doesn't reply but to scowl at him before pulling off the shirt he's wearing and putting the clean one on. Sleep, despite his earlier resistance, suddenly seems like a very inviting concept. But—

"You need _sleep_ too," Newt says. "Come on—the bed is big enough for two."

Hermann sighs. "Alright," he says, "If you kick me though…"

The thing that tugs at his lips can't quite be called a smile, not yet; too jagged and painful, but.

Almost.

* * *

It's easier to fall asleep with Hermann there—frighteningly more so. Newt finds his own breathing synchronising with Hermann's no matter what he does to try and stop it, inhaling softer and shallower as the minutes drag by.

Finally, he drifts off, though—the combined factors of _warmth_ and _familiar presence_ work in tandem, dragging him under.

Floats through darkness—just darkness, ever-expanding, never-ending, and—

Breathes a sigh of relief when the expected _whitebluedeathdistructionkillthemall_ stays at bay.

* * *

"I think I'm still in love with you," Newt says plainly the next morning, voice scratchy from sleep, Hermann's hand thrown over his waist. There's no sunlight filtering through the blinds—there are, for that matter, no blinds. The black-out curtains, however, are doing their job admirably well.

"Mmm," Hermann murmurs, unfazed, and pulls Newt closer so that he can nuzzle the his neck.

Newt scowls. "Really?" he demands, "I've been keeping that locked up for years with anxiety and—and—fucking _aliens_ , Herms, and now I confess my possibly-undying love for you and all you can do is _hum?_ What am I, chopped liver?"

"Hm," says Hermann, muffled. "Great."

"Wait," Newt stares at the ceiling, trying to gather his thoughts. "Are you still half-asleep and didn't hear anything I just said, or did you already _know_ and just never _said_ anything?"

"That's nice," Hermann murmurs, and yep, he didn't hear a word. Newt's scowl grows.

"Fine," he huffs, "you brought me to this." And with that, he rolls off the bed, dragging the blanket with him, and falls to the ground with a _thump_.

That jolts Hermann awake. "Newton!" he exclaims, peering over the side of the bed at Newt, eyes wide. Newt bares his teeth. "I can't believe you," Hermann sighs, "give me back the blanket, you ridiculous man."

"Not until you give me a movie-worthy response," Newt counters.

"To what?" Hermann asks, cautiously, as if Newt has just suggested that they buy a tarantula. "And arguably, nothing I can say is going to be _movie-worthy,_ Newton, I'm not—"

"I think I'm still in love with you," Newt says, "I don't think I ever stopped."

"Oh," Hermann says. Blinks. "I…didn't know." There's another pause, and then he says, "Well. This would be significantly more awkward if it wasn't mutual. Now please, Newton, for the love of all things holy, please give me the blanket. I'm getting cold."

Newt heaves a dramatic sigh. It feels almost normal. Nice, really, when he stops to think about it, that some of his old mannerisms are returning. "Alright," he says, "but only because you're cute."

"And you're incorrigible," Hermann shoots back, shifting to make room for Newt, and then blinks dazedly when Newt presses a chaste kiss to his forehead before throwing the blanket over the both of them and curling against him. "But," he says, at length, quietly, "I wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

After that, the tenuous— _thing_ they have solidifies.

They don't put a name to it—Newt, because he's not sure what to even _call_ this thing, and Hermann because—

Well. Newt suspects he's a little bit scared. But that's okay. Because Newt is scared, too—fucking terrified, really. But hey. They'll figure it out.

"We're the best partners ever," Newt says, scuffs the toe of his boots on the grass, the breeze pleasantly chilly, and when he grins, it feels just a bit more real.

Hermann squeezes his hand. "Yes," he says, "we are."


	61. 61

**familiar faces and fields medals**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **"** **Post-War means mandatory public appearances. Unfortunately, Hermann runs into an old acquaintance."**

* * *

"Oh, dear," Hermann says, paling considerably. He's clutching his champagne flute, white-knuckled, and Newt knocks their shoulders together.

" _What?_ " he hisses, "Hermann, stop, you're going to—"

 _Break the glass,_ he means to say, except, well, it's already happened—the glass shatters, pieces falling to the floor, and Hermann lets out a strangled cry of pain. "—that," he finishes lamely. "Oh, Hermann, here, lemme see it—oh, you're bleeding!"

Hermann _is_ bleeding—and quite profusely. He's paling, actually, pretty badly—"We should get that checked," he says firmly, "Hermann, come on." Newt elevates the hand above Hermann's heart. The crowd around them parts—probably the blood—letting them get to the bathrooms within minutes.

"What were you _doing?_ " Newt asks, as the frigidly cold water runs over Hermann's hand, and Newt's, where he's holding the other's under the faucet. The water is only a very light pink, now, instead of the deeper red it was when they got in.

Hermann refuses to meet his gaze. "I saw a…less-than-desired face," he says. "And…I may have over-reacted. Slightly."

"You _think?_ " Newt asks. He sighs. "Okay, sorry. I shouldn't be getting snappy about it. Do you…do you want to talk about it?"

Hermann bestows him with a half-smile, before it disappears. "Thank you, Newton," he says. "I…well," he starts, "you know that I attended boarding school at my father's behest. For…a majority of my time there, I—well, I didn't have many friends, for a variety of reason. But…during my last year, I—" he coughs, embarrassed.

Newt gives him a moment, turns the water off, and inspects his hand. "I think we got all the glass out," he says, an offer of subject change, if Hermann wishes it.

"I fancied a peer of mine," Hermann continues, brushing it aside. "We were briefly involved, but it…didn't turn out well."

Newt gnaws on his lip, uncertain of how to reply, and settles on patting Hermann's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he says, "which. Is like. Not really what you wanted to hear, probably, but. I mean it. I'm sorry, Hermann."

Hermann offers a grimace. "Well, it's in the past. I just…didn't expect to see him here. As I said, it…didn't end well. I'm fine, though. It's just annoying that he probably thinks he "won" our breakup, what with the model hanging off his arm."

" _Competitive,_ " Newt teases, before, with an air of finality, he says, "Well, fuck him."

* * *

After they leave the restroom, Hermann's hand no longer bleeding, the cut cleaned and wrapped with gauze—where Newt got the gauze from, Hermann's not going to ask—he thinks little of the exchange.

Until.

Newt's gone off in search of hors d'oeurves, and Hermann somehow gets dragged into a "conversation" on the uselessness of his work, thinly-veiled as a "debate", including a plethora of insults to his person, featuring one Andrew Weston as the opponent.

Mostly, actually, it's insults to his person.

"Really," scoffs Andrew, "it figures that you became a physicist. You always _were_ dead boring."

Hermann's just about to jump in with a scathing retort and put an end to the entire ridiculous affair, an arm slides around his waist. "Hermann, _darling_ ," Newt says, breath hot as he leans in to press a significantly-less-than chaste, open-mouthed kiss to Hermann's neck.

"Newton!" Hermann squeaks, and Newt presses closer.

"Just go along with is," he hisses, "we're going to show that asshole who _really_ won the breakup." And then he pulls back, arm still around Hermann's waist, and says, "Babe, who's this?"

 _You madman_ , Hermann thinks. "An old associate of mine," he says, aloud. "Andrew Weston." He makes sure the name is dripping with distain. If Newt's quirked lips are anything to go by, he succeeds. "Andrew, this is my—"

"Lover," Newt says, brightly. "And Hermann is my beloved."

"—fiancé," Hermann finishes, pushing down the urge to sigh.

"He was awarded a Fields Medal just last year," Newt says, "for the work he did during the War."

 _Ah,_ Hermann thinks. So Newt _did_ hear Andrew's remarks.

Newt is looking smug; Andrew, on the other hand, looks like someone who's only barely stopping themselves from being sick. "That's—that's nice," Andrew says, strangled."Con—congratulations, Hermann. I—I have something to attend to. Goodbye!"

As soon as Andrew makes his retreat, Newt rocks back on his feet, no longer draped over Hermann. Hermann, for his part, brushes invisible specks of dust off of his arm and glares in the direction that Andrew disappeared. "I, ah," he says, slightly stiffly. "Thank you for the well-timed intervention."

"No problem," Newt beams. "And anyway, he looked like a jerk."

"'Looked like a jerk'?" Hermann parrots, amused. "Do tell."

"Yeah," Newt says, "professional clothes, tall, face set in a permanent frown and likes to use big words. Like you. Except I actually _like_ you. And he kept insulting your work, so," he shrugs.

" _You_ insult my work," Hermann says drily.

"Yeah, but that's _me_ ," Newt says, flippant, and leans forward, tugs on Hermann's tie. "There we go. All fixed. You look nice, by the way."

"I _haven't_ been awarded a Fields Medal," Hermann says instead, trying to not flush at the compliment.

Newt grins at him. " _Yet_."


	62. 62

**poetry of the heart**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "Newt's relapsed."**

* * *

The harsh white lighting of the compound throws everything into sharp relief, stripping away the shadows. Hermann glances at the watch on his wrist, watches as the second hand moves steadily, _tick, tick, tick_ and breathes in.

He thinks of the papers at his desk in their flat, the way it feels empty, has felt empty for weeks, now, without Newton. The poet within him burst free during those weeks—many of the papers on his desk at the moment are pieces of poetry.

[ _—you love each other, you do, and here's the tragedy: it's not enough. You are not allowed to save him. You can love him, but you can't keep him._ ]

The chair he's sitting in is cold and hard, but it's better than standing. Somewhere within the labyrinthine corridors, the air sharp with the scent of disinfectant, there is someone dying.

There always is, in places like these.

He licks his lips and waits.

Suddenly, the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching, and he draws himself up, sitting straight-backed; anticipating.

"Dr. Gottlieb," greets the nurse, a clipboard in hand. "Please, follow me."

The circulated air is cold on his skin as he follows after her; the silence between them stretches, makes Hermann fidget. The little corner of his mind that harbours a presence that sounds strangely like Newton laughs. _You're becoming like me_ , he teases, _maybe you shouldn't've Drifted with me._

Hermann bites his tongue, ignores it to the best of his ability.

She stops outside the door. "This is Doctor Geiszler's room," she clarifies, needlessly. "He's still fairly weak from the treatments, so please don't do anything that could cause him to get overexcited."

He nods—speaking seems inappropriate, somehow, and he steps forward, turns the handle of the door.

It's heavier than he's expected—he has to brace it with his shoulder to open it properly.

The inside is much like the outside—stark, impersonal. Everything in blue-white, the scent of antiseptic permeating everything. Four beds—three are empty, curtains pulled back, covers made to perfection. The fourth, furthest from the door, closest to the singular window, has the curtains drawn.

He makes his way over to it, the triplicate of his footsteps and cane the only sound, pulls back the curtain just enough that he can see the man lying in the bed.

Newton's propped up with pillows, chest rising and falling slightly with each breath. He looks frighteningly pale, arms limp at his side, face waxy. He looks a bit like an apparition, all told. Hermann hovers at the side of the bed, warring between wanting to leave him to rest and wanting to sit there and wait for him to get better.

Newt's eyes crack open. "Hermann?" he asks, quiet, slightly scratchy, and his hand twitches toward him.

"Yes, it's—it's me, darling," Hermann replies, equally quietly, and it feels fragile, like if he raises his voice Newt will shatter.

[ _He_ will shatter.]

Newt turns his head minutely so he can meet Hermann's gaze better. "I…I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean—it just got so _loud_ , and the next thing I know, I was waking up here, and they said I had relapsed, that—that you found me. I—I'm sorry, Hermann."

His eyes are glassy, and Hermann's own are stinging with tears at the memory of finding Newt's figure on the floor, limp, pons on his head, another brain in a tank, scarily reminiscent of finding Newton seizing on a filthy floor in Hong Kong.

"Have you been eating?" he asks instead, sits on the edge of the bed, fingers smoothing over the wrinkles in the bedsheets. "You look too thin."

Newt sighs. "We can't avoid it forever," he says, and Hermann flinches. "Yes, I've eaten," he adds, "the stuff here tastes like shit, though. I miss your cooking."

"I…" _thought you were dead,_ he doesn't say, _for good, this time._

He doesn't have to; Newt knows, even if Hermann doesn't say it out loud. He shifts, just enough that he can place his hand over Hermann's own, and Hermann pulls in a hitching breath. "You scared me," he says, "I was—I was terrified, Newton."

"I know," Newt says gently. "And I'm sorry. And me saying that isn't going to change what happened, but I—I need you to know that. I _am_ sorry for scaring you like that."

Hermann sighs. Newt's right—he's still angry and afraid, and nothing that the other says can change that, but. "Thank you," he says, "I…I will not be able to ever get over this, Newton, but—thank you."

Newt doesn't nod—Hermann suspects that the motion would be too exhaustive—but he squeezes Hermann's hand. "I'm getting better," he murmurs, "and I'll get better. I—I'm going to find a therapist, Hermann. I can't do this on my own, not anymore. Not without hurting you. But I—I'm going to try my hardest."

Hermann swallows. "Thank you," he says, again, because he can't find the words, throat tight, but there's something growing in his chest, beneath his sternum, something he can tentatively call _hope._

He cannot _keep_ Newton; that is not his call to make—it is up to Newton to _stay_ or _leave_.

He cannot save Newton; that is up to Newton himself—Newt must walk the path of recovery himself.

But—he can be there by Newt's side. And that is enough.

[It _has_ to be enough.]


	63. 63

**two stubborn bastards walk into a bar**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt is exceptionally stubborn; Hermann knows this.**

 **On the bright side, so is he."**

* * *

"Fine, then!" Newt shouts, throwing his hands up, and glares at Hermann fiercely—or, at least, attempts to. The overall effect is something like a cat that needs to sneeze. "I'm leaving, Hermann—and I'm not coming back!"

Hermann stares at him, barely holding in the instinctive urge to—to _gape_ at the other. "What?" he asks, shocked. "I—I'm sorry, you're—?"

" _Leaving_ ," Newt snaps. "Since you don't appreciate me, I might as well find someone who _does_." He crosses his arms, glaring. "Good. _Bye_." He turns on his heel, stomping out, leaving Hermann staring at the place he'd occupied just a moment earlier blankly.

He lowers his gaze to the table and lets out a soft sigh.

Newt's not back by the next night, though, so Hermann gives in and calls him. It goes to voice-mail—well, not his _actual_ voice-mail. It's Newt _pretending_ Hermann has reached his voice-mail. Hermann lets out another sigh—he's been doing that a lot lately. "Newton," he says, "you idiot. You left all your clothing."

"I got hired by Li Wen Shao," Newt shoots back flippantly, giving up on the voice-mail charade. "I can buy a new _wardrobe_." The smugness is there, even over the phone, and Hermann rolls his eyes.

"You _hate_ Shao Industries," he says. "You joined in a protest against them just last _month_. I cannot see any situation in which you would work for her, nevermind a situation where she would _hire_ you."

The other huffs. "See? This is what got you in this situation, Hermann. You put too little faith in me."

"I sometimes think I put _too_ much faith in you," Hermann says drily. "Well, have fun with your little private sector stint. It won't last long, mark my words. You'll come running back like a dog with its tail between its hind legs."

The intensity of Newt's tone when he speaks is slightly frightening. "We'll see," he says, "we'll see."

* * *

It's something like morbid curiosity mixed with Hermann's inner scientist that drives him to see how long it'll last. He _predicts_ Newton will not last more than six days.

Currently, the tally is nine months, a fact that Newt is gloating over, words rendered slightly flat by the poor connection. "Not just a _wunderkind_ anymore, am I, Herms?" he laughs. Hermann scowls, even if Newt can't see it, since it's just a voice call.

He imagines Newt is sitting in a spinning office-chair, grinning, absurdly-expensive coffee in hand as he orders about minions. "You will, first and foremost, be a hyperactive _wunderkind_ to me, Newton," he retorts. "How much longer are you going to keep this up, anyway? I know you hate it with a passion, Newton. The only thing keeping you there is your _ridiculous_ competitive streak."

" _Your_ ridiculous competitive streak," Newt counters, "this could all be over if you'd just admit I was _right_."

Hermann scowls harder, and when he doesn't answer soon enough, the line clicks dead.

Newt calls again three months later. "How's a year without _moi_ been, Hermann? Is my voice music to your ears?"

Hermann practically throws the phone at the wall, just to see the expression on Newt's face before the screen cracks and shatters, the phone broken beyond repair. "I hate you," he says, matter-of-factly, but without bite. All of this, and what for? The fact that Hermann insulted his tiramisu? Still, Hermann couldn't help but be impressed by his sheer commitment to his dickishness. Newton was willing to suffer for his art, you had to give him that.

"Aww, that's sweet," Newt coos. "Now, are you going to finally acknowledge that I was right, you bastard?"

 _No_ , Hermann almost says, _absolutely not_ , out of spite, but. Well, he's _missed_ Newton, surprisingly. So, instead, he says, "No. But…I _could_ be convinced."

Newt grins at him. "Thank _fuck_ ," he says, dramatically, and tosses the file of papers in his hand over his shoulder, ignores the protest of one of his "minions". "Now I can finally quit this job. Dinner at seven tomorrow at my new place? I'll text you the address." For good measure, he throws the cup of coffee in the same direction as the papers went.

Hermann shakes his head in mock-dispair, but his lips quirk into a minute smile.


	64. 64

**call me, maybe**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **The other glares at him petulantly. "I can put my table where I _want_ ," he retorts. "And as for the call, it was a butt dial, so. _Chill_ , if that's possible for you." With that, he returns to hacking at the…whatever it is with renewed vigour—a silent dismissal. Hermann sighs, retreating back to his own side and hopes that that'll be the last of it."**

* * *

"You called me again," Hermann says, over the scrape of the chalk on blackboard, the sound grating, and, when Newt just hums in response without looking up, repeats the motion, slower and more grating. " _Again_ ," he emphasises.

There's a wet splat as Newton throws up his hands, kaiju fluid viscera every which way, a scowl affixed to his face, hair in disarray, and snaps, " _So?_ "

"At three in the _morning_ ," Hermann returns, and fails to hide his flinch as a piece of kaiju slithers off of the biologist's dissection table and over the fading line splitting the lab in half. "I _told_ you to move your table further away!" he shouts, clambers down the ladder and kicks the— _something_ back onto the biologist's side.

The other glares at him petulantly. "I can put my table where I _want_ ," he retorts. "And as for the call, it was a butt dial, so. _Chill_ , if that's _possible_ for you." With that, he returns to hacking at the…whatever it is with renewed vigour—a silent dismissal. Hermann sighs, retreating back to his own side and hopes that that'll be the last of it.

Still, he's a bit perplexed as to _how_ Newt could _possibly_ be butt dialling him, considers _asking_ , even, but—Hermann refuses to remind Newton that he has a flip phone. But who knows? With him, anything's possible, he supposes. Even butt dials with flip phones.

Still, the issue refuses to be gone from his mind, lingering there at the edge of his consciousness, distracts him from his work. In irritation, he presses harder against the board—if he has to suffer, then Newt does, too, forced to listen to the god-awful scrape of chalk—

There's a snap, and Newt calls, "Hey, Hermann? Are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Herman snaps, erases the miss-written end of a number and re-writes it with the now-halved piece left in his grip. Newt gives a grunt and returns to squishing around in kaiju, and Hermann can see in his mind's eye, the squint of his eyes behind beviscerad glasses, tongue stuck out just slightly in the way Hermann knows he does when he's focused with laser-like intensity.

"I hate you," he says, aloud, experimentally, waits for the righteous anger that—

 _Should_ be there. Instead, the words feel hollow.

"What'd you say?" Newt yells, pausing for a moment to glance up at Hermann. "Sorry, I couldn't hear you over the—" he gestures at the headphones, since when does he wear _headphones_ , is Hermann really that unobservant? "You gonna answer, or keep running your hands over that chalk-board like it's your lovechild?"

Hermann flushes, sputters for a moment. "Nothing!" he shouts, "I didn't—I didn't say anything!"

The other shrugs, readjusts the headphones, and dives back into what might possibly be a spleen with a disturbing amount of glee on his face, the vibrant ink on his arms on full display in the short-sleeved shirt he's wearing.

Hermann turns back to the board, discreetly tugs at the collar of his own shirt, suddenly inexplicably warm.

* * *

"We'll keep in touch, yeah?" Newt grins at him, wide and carefree. "It's not a life-sentence, Herms. And I'll call you at least once a day."

"More than once, if you're as bad with touch-screens as flip-phones," Hermann huffs, but there's no bite to it, a grin of his own hiding just beneath it. Before, perhaps, he'd stand there awkwardly and watch Newt leave, but—

Now, he notices when Newt shifts forward, just the slightest bit, and, before Newt can do so, Hermann surges forward, dragging the other into an embrace.

Newt lets out a startled _oof_. "Easy there," he says, voice muffled on Hermann's shoulder, "I'll miss you too, bud."

* * *

(There are no accidental calls in the middle of the night.

Hermann spends the first week waiting, anticipating, like a live-wire. His phone remains silent, and, eventually, he falls asleep; dreams of days past, flashes of Newt—laughing, crying, standing tall, defiant, seizing on the floor, expression shocked— _hopeful—_ as Hermann offers to Drift with him—

When Hermann wakes, there are tear-tracks dried on his cheeks.

He ignores the subtle but present shaking of his hands as he washes his face clean, refuses to acknowledge the lingering taste of wholeness, the knife-sharp taste of missed chances.)

* * *

"Hermann!" Newt calls, grin wide, as if nothing has changed.


	65. 65

**two birds on a wire**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Two birds of a feather**

 **Say that they're always gonna stay together—"**

* * *

"You're not the same," Newt greets, without preamble, the tilt of his head inquisitive, but it's hiding a skittishness behind it, the way his eyes flicker from one spot to the other, fingers twitching.

Hermann offers a tight-lipped smile. "Well, it has been a decade," he replies, in what's attempting to be a neutral tone. It comes out flat and apathetic instead. Newt blinks at him, rapidly.

"Yeah," he agrees, "yeah. It has." He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt—thick, dark, so unlike what he wears in Hermann's memories, sleeves pulled down.

Good for hiding the ink etched into his skin. He catches Hermann looking, though—of course he does; Newton Geiszler is nothing if not observant. "I'm not getting rid of them," he says, sensing what Hermann's thinking without needing Hermann to say a thing.

"I wasn't suggesting that you should," Hermann says, after a beat. "Simply that I would…understand if you wanted to."

The other gives him a humourless smile. "No you wouldn't," he says.

Hermann raises a hand, unconsciously, to rest it on the other's shoulder; drops it the second he realises what he's about to do. "No," he says, soft. "No, I wouldn't."

A beat of silence stretches between them; Hermann, perched anxiously on the edge of his chair, fiddling with the head of his cane; Newt, legs hooked in an intricate, senseless pattern around the legs of the chair, rocking back and forth in the tiniest increments, and not meeting Hermann's eyes.

 _We must look quite odd_ , Hermann thinks, _sat here across from each other at the bar in a tiny kitchen_. Well—odder than usual. Hermann can't think of a single instance where either of them _don't_ look odd.

"It bothers you," Newt guesses, without clarifying what he means, but the slight catch in his voice, the way that, without thought, his hand strays to where the skull ring once sat is plenty telling.

His tone is wistful, almost.

"Yes," Hermann admits. "Just…not in the way you think."

The other's silence is a clear invitation to continue, so he does. "I'm married to a memory," he says, not with the intention of cruelty, but a simple statement of fact. "I don't know if I can ever really have you back. And I…I can no longer pretend otherwise."

He presses his eyes shut, an automatic reflex against the unexpected tears that rise.

"…I don't know either." Newt's voice is, for the first time in ages, uncertain. Fearful, even. "I…we've both changed, Hermann."

There's a pause, like he's debating if he should continue—

The kettle whistles, loud and shrill, and Newt starts, chair tipping, tipping, tipping—

Before he even realises what he's doing, Hermann's hand has shot out, grabbing the other's wrist and steadying him, fingers tight. They stare at each other for a moment, Newt catching his breath, before he mutters, "Thank you,", and the moment is gone.

Slightly flustered, he pulls his hand away and clears his throat. "I—yes, w—we have," he stammers. Why, oh why, does it suddenly feel like he's lost all grasp of the English language? "We have," he repeats, in a vain attempt to speak.

Newt eyes him curiously; openly. "Is that a bad thing?" he asks.

Hermann licks his lips and considers the question. "No," he settles on, "no…I don't believe so."

It's like someone has cut Newt's strings; he slumps, shoulders relaxing, head dropping forward slightly, and Hermann feels, for a second, blind panic overtake him before Newt says, "I—can we try again, maybe?"

 _Try…?_ Oh, he thinks, _that's what he means_. "It's going to be hard," he says—warns, for his benefit or Newt's, he doesn't know. "Both of us are different. We might be to changed to fit." _I'm afraid we might be_ , he doesn't say.

When Newt lifts his head to meet Hermann's gaze, his jaw is set. "We'll never know if we don't try," he counters, "and I don't know about you, but—Hermann, I _want_ to try. I'm sure of it.

He extends his hand, a gesture reminiscent of the one he offered Hermann years and years ago. "What do you say, Hermann?"

[— _Say it with me, my man_ —]

Hermann takes a breath, weighs the risks and rewards, balanced on the knife's edge.

Then, he grasps Newt's hand and says, "Yes."


	66. 66

**never say never**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Lars Gottlieb assumes.**

 **Naturally, he assumes wrong."**

* * *

Hermann's reading the paper as he eats once Newt finally drags himself out of bed. His hair is—well, it's _better_ than it was during the War, especially now that he's not cutting it himself anymore, but paired with his clothing choices, he still looks stuffy.

It's adorable.

Newt serves himself some eggs, sticks a few pieces of bread in the toaster, and shifts from foot to foot, the tile of the kitchen floor cold even through his socks.

"My parents have decided they wish to visit," Hermann says, out of the blue, gaze still fixed on an article as he pokes at his own breakfast, and turns a page. Newt, in the process of diving forward to grab the toast as it pops up, chokes, stumbles, and hits his chin on the bar counter.

The next few moments are spent trying to right himself, blinking stunnedly at Hermann through the pain. "W—what?" he finally manages, just the tinniest bit ragged.

The other finally sets down the paper and sighs. "You clumsy idiot," he says, not unaffectionately. "Come sit down. Your food isn't going to get any warmer." At a loss for what else to _do_ , Newt does as suggested, though it does take him a few moments to fish the bread out of the toaster, hissing when his fingers accidentally touch the heated metal.

Hermann offers him a glass of water when he sits down, and waits for Newt to swallow before he says, "My father, especially, has, for some unknown reason, shown a marked interest in your person."

"That's…not great," Newt laughs nervously. "Uh, you said—you said no, right?"

A flat stare; Hermann's expression unreadable, or at least approximating it, and he says, "My father is stubborn, Newton, in ways that you cannot imagine. Believe me, this was the far better option."

Newt laughs again, edging on hysterical, and, well, "I guess it runs in the family." He presses his eyes together, brings a piece of too-hot toast to his mouth and tries to ground himself with the burn. "Fuck."

Hermann presses his lips into a thin, severe line, and nods.

"Well, then," Newt says, "the instant he sees this place I will be _eviscerated_ , given that he basically thinks I swore and oath to him to never sleep with you and that's obviously _exactly_ what I did."

That does elicit a reaction—Hermann chokes on his own toast, drops the paper he's only just picked up onto his plate, _That's going to get eggs on it_ , Newt thinks, and after a moment of coughing, demands, "What do you—?" and then starts hacking, _again_ , seriously Newt is starting to get concerned, "you—my— _what?_ " he sputters, glaring, albeit weakly, eyes watering. _"_ In—in what possible—you promised my _father_ you wouldn't fuck me? In what possible context?"

Newt raises his hands placatingly. "I didn't _mean_ it!" he protests, "it was—it was that time he and those other assholes trying to get our funding cut came around offering their false sympathies, and job offers, and he tried to get me to quit the PPDC and work for him, and I sad something along the lines of _The day I join you is the day I give up all for lost and sleep with Hermann_ , and—" _some choice expletives_ , too, he means to tack on, but it all shrivels up when he realises how _that_ sounds.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says, lamely, "I—fuck, I was running on fumes and spite and I thought you hated me, so that gave me a free pass to be an asshole."

Hermann doesn't say anything for a long moment, just sits there silently, and then, quietly, just as Newt's beginning to wonder if it's _anger_ brewing there, quiet, like the calm before the storm, _quietly,_ "That is…the past, now."

Newt excises the breath he didn't even realise he was holding. "Yeah," he says. "But I'm still sorry. Even if it isn't good enough, I am. I was petty, and I hurt you."

"You did," Hermann agrees. "You were an asshole. But so was I. But that's not who we are anymore, and I'm glad of that."

He offers Newt a weak smile, and then says, the slight undercurrent of pettiness Newt thinks makes him fall for Hermann again and again, "I, for one, shall enjoy forcing him to acknowledge that he's got no control over either of us."

"Hermann!" Newt gasps in mock surprise, "I never thought you could be so rebellious!"

The weak smile pulls into a baring of teeth. "Watch me, darling, watch me."


	67. 67

**narwhals and numbers**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt accidentally stumbles upon something very personal to Hermann."**

* * *

The first time it happens, Newt doesn't even realise until almost a week later. It's not that Newt _doesn't read_ his mail, or that Newt hasn't gone down to the post-room in ages and ages, he _has_ , alright, it's just…his room is messy.

Which, consequently, is why he only finds the package when he has to dig through his stuff in search of an errant earring.

The package is heavy, solid, and, in perfect, upper-case lettering, is addressed to one _Hermann Gottlieb,_ post-marked…actually, what the fuck _is_ that there. Whatever it is, it's written in a language Newt doesn't know. The stamps—three of them—keep doing this weird thing where Newt thinks, for a second, that he's got a keen view of them before they—

—do that, right there. Like one of those 3D photos where the picture moves.

"Huh," he says, and tosses it onto the bed, makes a mental note to give it to Hermann at the soonest possible moment. A secret little part of him wants to open it, but—well, he may be an utter asshole sometimes, but—

—no, just no. He wouldn't do that.

The second time it happens, it's in the pile with his other mail when he goes to pick it up. Another rectangular package, same weird writing, shifty stamps, and Newt heaves a sigh. "Hermann," he murmurs, and then spots the rip in the packaging.

It's a jagged thing, and Newt can see the object—book on the inside. The cover is dark, dark green, and it looks like it's made of leather. The rest of the packaging is pretty beat up, to—Newt's surprised that the book is intact, actually. "Damn it, Hermann," he gripes, "I don't have any wrapping paper."

He does, as a matter of fact, have wrapping paper, much to his own surprise. It is, however, not...well, it's not exactly the kind Hermann springs for.

That is to say, it's Christmas wrapping paper. Specifically, narwhals with wreaths of holly on their tusks. He almost laughs at the mental image of what Hermann's expression will be when he hands it to him.

For that, though, he's going to have to take off the original wrapping. "Sorry, Herms," he mutters as he goes to fetch a pair of scissors, because he really does feel bad about doing this, but his need to fix the wrapping is greater than his guilt.

The orangey-yellow cuts cleanly under his admittedly haphazardly-wielded shears, and he pulls it off, setting it to the side, and rolls out the narwhal wrapping paper.

The contents of the package

aren't, as Newt had initially assumed, one book—it's two, actually, one thick, dark-green, leather-covers, and the other, a far slimmer grey book. Newt can't help but glance at the titles as he begins to wrap them—the green one's title is easily visible in gold lettering: _A Grimoire of Arithmancy_ . The title of thin grey one, he almost misses; it's in tiny lettering on the bottom left of the cover. _Blood magic, cursing, and other "black" magics_ , it says.

He tapes down the wraping paper securely and files the information away.

"Hey, Herms," he says when he gets to the lab the next day, narwhaled package tucked under his arm. Hermann hums, not taking his eyes off of the holographic model, and does a little motion with his fingers, the one he does out of habit when something's annoying him, reaches for the cup of tea at his side. " _Hermann_ ," Newt says, again, with a bit of a whine in his tone, "dude, I need to give you something."

Hermann takes a sip of his tea and sighs. "What?" he asks, "I swear, if you—"

"No, dude, no!" he protests. "I got another—so, like, remember that box I gave you a few weeks back? The one addressed to you that got mixed up with my mail?"

"...yes?" Hermann asks, sets his cup down, gaze flickering, finally, up to meet Newt's. "What about it?"

"Well," he says, "whoever's doing the distributing put another one of yours in with my stuff. Here." He offers the package to Hermann.

The physicist stares at the package, then at him. "It has...narwhals on it," he says finally, and then pulls it out of his hands. Eyes narrowed, he bites, "You—I can't believe you—went through my mail—!"

"The package was ripped!" Newt exclaims, throwing up his hands. "I—you _know_ how I get about that, Herms, I had to— _fix_ it!" He presses his eyes closed for a moment, and when he opens them, it's because Hermann's hand in on his arm, shaking as Newt shakes.

He pulls in a breath. "Sorry," he says, "I shouldn't've—sorry."

Hermann gives a tiny nod. "I can't say that I'm not upset," he replies, "but I...I appreciate the apology. It's simply that..." he sighs, sets the books down on his desk and picks his tea back up. "That's a rather...personal part of my life," he admits. "I...was afraid you would—"

The words cut off, but Newt knows what he means. "I'm sorry," he says, again. "I should've just given you the ripped package. But...I'd never judge you, okay? Like, just so you know."

Hermann offers him a tiny smile. "Thank you," he says. "And yes, next time I'd appreciate if you didn't...re-wrap my packages. Although, I must say, the design of this wrapping paper is quite unique."

Newt grins. "I know, right? It's from, like, four years ago, dude. I'd forgotten I had it." He pauses, then, slightly quieter, continues, "Um, I know it won't, like, make up for what I did, but I was wondering if you maybe wanted to go out for coffee sometime? And like, um," he stumbles over his words, suddenly very aware of Hermann's hand on his arm. "Uh, just, like. Talk? About whatever! Shit, sorry, this isn't coming out so great."

The look Hermann's giving him is surprisingly soft, and he says, "Yes, I think I would like that, Newton."

"Newt," Newt says, reflexively, and the corners of Hermann's eyes crinkle.


	68. 68

**that green-eyed moster**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann rolls his eyes, but it's more of an exasperated fondness than anything. "I…reconsidered your proposal," he says, and when Newt stares at him blankly, clarifies, "your proposal to acquire non-human companionship."**

 **"Jesus," Newt says, "pets, Hermann, they're called pets."**

 **"Non-human companions," Hermann restates firmly, "do not see this as me giving in to your whims, Newton, stop, no, don't—""**

* * *

"Newton," Hermann says, hand coming to rest on his shoulder, and Newt, engrossed in his work, perched precariously on the seat of the tall stool, starts, lets out an undignified squeak, and flails in an attempt to not overbalance, bits of neutralised kaiju blue flying every which way.

When he finally steadies himself, he frowns at Hermann. "Dude," he says, "dude, give me warning next time, yeah?"

Hermann gives him a deadpan look. "You're one to lecture _me_ ," he says drily. Newt tries to focus on that, on bringing up indignance instead of the instinctual _oh god you're adorable_ that's his first thought. "And perhaps if you sat _properly_ —"

Newt huffs, pulls off his gloves with a sharp _snap_. "Herms," he says, "we've talked about this. I don't complain about your stupid chalk obsession and you don't needle me about my chair thing, _capisce?_ Now, what was it you were going to tell me?"

Hermann rolls his eyes, but it's more of an exasperated fondness than anything. "I…reconsidered your proposal," he says, and when Newt stares at him blankly, clarifies, "your proposal to acquire non-human companionship."

" _Jesus_ ," Newt says, " _pets_ , Hermann, they're called _pets_."

" _Non-human companions_ ," Hermann restates firmly, "do not see this as me _giving in to your whims_ , Newton, stop, no, don't—"

But it's too late, because Newt has already hopped off of the chair and dragged the physicist into an embrace. The other goes stiff for a moment before he sighs, apparently resigning himself to the situation, and stops trying to push Newt away. "I haven't _given in_ ," he repeats, "I've simply reconsidered."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Herms," Newt grins.

The humane society nearby isn't very large, but the staff are very helpful. Thankfully for them, Newt and Hermann both agree on cats being the pet of choice, so no one's subjected to a shouting match.

"How about this one?" Newt asks, gesturing to the calico in his lap. She lets out a little _mrrp?_ and stares at him mournfully until he relents and rubs her jaw.

Hermann squints at the two of them. "No," he says, "no, she's not the one."

Newt sighs. "What are you _looking_ for, exactly?" he asks, but Hermann doesn't answer. For all his professed skepticism in fate, destiny, and chance, Hermann's actually pretty dead-set on finding the cat that's his perfect match. Newt shakes his head fondly.

Just as Newt's about to suggest that maybe they should be headed back to the flat, Hermann lets out a soft, " _Oh_ , Newton—"

The cat he's cradling in his arms is one of the smallest ones—full-grown, but still only half the size of the others, ears almost comically oversized. Hermann's looking into its eyes with unadulterated adoration.

"So," Newt says, "I take it you found the one?"

" _Yes_ ," Hermann says. "Isn't she just _precious?_ Oh yes, you are, aren't you, darling?"

The cat's purring, but its large, icy eyes are fixed on Newt, and the intensity makes him shiver with something like dread.

On the trip home, the newly-christened Ada—"After Ada Lovelace?" Newt asks, and Hermann scoffs, shoots him a look that says, quite clearly, _Of course it is, Newton, you idiot, what do you take me for?_ —sits on Hermann's lap in the passenger seat.

Newt feels weirdly left out—Hermann's cooing at her, murmuring endearments, and on the whole, barely even acknowledging Newt's presence. Newt puts down the weird stabbing sensation in his stomach to indigestion.

Later, though, just as he's about to drift off, wrapped in Hermann's embrace, he rolls just a _bit_ too far—

And finds himself gasping in pain as claws rip through his arm, jolting him back to wakefulness. He barely swallows back the instinctive yelp, clutches his arm. By his side, Hermann shifts, and Newt freezes, afraid he's woken the other.

Hermann settles back down, though, and Newt's left to drag in ragged breaths as quietly as he can, Ada staring at him judgementally from where she's relocated herself to between the two of them, and Newt gets the distinct impression that the cat does _not_ like him.

"He's not _your territory_ ," he whispers, and tries to shift her so that he can return to cuddling with the lanky mathematician.

She hisses at him, eyes narrowed, and makes as if to claw him.

"Newton," Hermann says, two months in, and his tone throws up _all_ of the red flags in Newt's mind for _disappointment _and—"I need you to be honest with me. Do you _dislike_ Ada?" He gives Newt a look that's somewhere along the lines of…well, _hesitancy_ and _fear_.

"No!" Newt exclaims, "no, I don't!" Because really, he doesn't. Sure, he'd rather she didn't like, fucking try and _kill_ him when he tries to do _anything_ with Hermann, and of course she's a perfect angel whenever Hermann's around, but.

He doesn't _dislike_ her.

Hermann lets out a sigh of relief, the tension draining from his shoulders. "Good," he says, more relaxed. "Good."

Ada takes that moment to saunter into the room, and like a moth to the flame, Hermann's attention shifts from Newt to the cat.

Newt tries not to feel cold, but it's as if he's been doused in ice-water. The cake he's served himself tastes like ash when he takes a bite, and he scowls.

It feels like Hermann's ignoring him, he realises.

Newt does not know what to do with this information, but he certainly doesn't like the way it makes emotion rise up into his throat. When will Hermann finally wake up and realise he protects a monster? A monster who seems hellbent on maiming Newt for encroaching on "her" territory, at that, and yeah, maybe he's being dramatic with the word _monster_ here, but come _on_ , he's still got scabs from where she scratched him the first night.

"—on? Newton?" Hermann says, and Newt blinks, realises Hermann's probably been saying something to him for at _least_ the last few minutes.

"Huh? Yeah?" he asks, "sorry, I kind of zoned out there."

Hermann sighs. "I was _saying_ ," he starts, "that Ada needs to be taken into the vet's tomorrow for her next round of shots, and I was wondering if you could take her?"

"Why can't _you?_ " Newt asks, petulantly, "since you two are best buds now."

The bitterness in his tone takes them both aback, and Hermann stares at him, shocked. After a moment, he says, "Newton, _I_ cannot take her because I have _class_."

"Oh," Newt says, feeling wrong-footed. "Sorry, I—" he hesitates, and Hermann motions for him to continue.

"She doesn't like me," Newt blurts out, "any time I try and like, even _hug_ you when she's in the room, bam! And dude, her claws? _Sharp_."

Hermann stares at him blankly for a moment, before he bursts out laughing. "What?" Newt snaps, crossing his arms.

"I—" Hermann lets out another laugh. "Newton, you—oh, darling, are you _jealous_ of Ada?"

Newt freezes. "I—no, don't be ridiculous, I'm not—" he protests.

Hermann shakes his head. "Newton," he says, and stops petting Ada, makes his way over to Newt and takes his hand. "Newton, darling, there's no need to be jealous—for _either_ of you to feel jealous of the other. My love isn't limited to just one of you, yes?"

"Yeah," Newt says, suddenly feeling very foolish, and glances at the cat, who's lounging on the sofa without a care in the world.

Hermann smiles at him and says, smugly, " _Yes_ ," and draws Newt in for a toe-curling kiss.


	69. 69

**after the storm**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** **"** **Newt's just been released"**

* * *

It takes three hours and fourteen minutes for the Precursors to shout Newt hoarse, raging on about how they will be _back_ , they will _conquer_ this _wretched planet_ , your luck is _running out—_

Hermann watches, a matching snarl rising in his own throat, bites it back, relegated to watching through the security cameras.

It takes five days, six hours and thirteen minutes before finally, finally, _finally,_ Newt slumps back against the chair he's strapped into, no longer struggling, and then, with a shrill _beep_ , his vitals drop, leaving Hermann on the edge of his seat, glued to the monitors, grip tight on the head of his cane as he prays, with every ounce of his power, that Newt will get through this. And suddenly, in that moment, this is not _enough_ , he has to be _there_ , he has to _see_ him—

Hermann's striding out and down the hall, the guards, for a moment, too shocked to move and stop him from bursting through the door, rushing to Newt's side, heedless of the protestations of the medical staff around him. His vitals stabilise for a second before flatlining, and Hermann shouts, "You cannot _do_ this to me, Newton, don't you _dare—_ "

Words fail him, and the guards drag him out.

It takes a further three weeks before, finally, finally, Newt is cleared of any involvement. Hermann thinks he could cry at that—relief, relief, relief.

* * *

"Sorry about the," Newt gestures to his own neck, though the movement is restricted slightly by the manacles on his wrists, and he drops his hands. They've still got him in the same clothes he was wearing the day of his apprehension, though the jacket is gone. The shirt is blood-stained and rumpled, and there are bruise-like black marks under his eyes. His voice is quiet, and Hermann wonders if speaking aggravates the split lip.

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, watches as Newt's gaze skitters away from his own whenever he tries to meet it. "Let's take those off," he says, instead of addressing the other's words. "There's no need for you to be wearing them any longer."

It takes a few moments to figure out _how_ to—there's no slot for a key, no combination, and it's accidental when he brushes his thumb over a slightly lighter patch of metal and there's a _click_ and the mechanism unlocks. "Would it have been such a hardship to inform me of that?" Hermann grumbles, and Newt starts.

"I didn't—"

"Not _you_ ," Hermann huffs. _Never you_. "Though _you_ could've done something _besides_ Drift with a kaiju brain, Newton, _honestly_ , as if I wasn't _there_ and willing—" It's reflexive, falling back into bickering, and it startles a raspy laugh from Newt.

"You're finding nicer and nicer ways of calling me an idiot," he says, and winces, rubs the red skin on his wrists.

Hermann frowns, takes Newt's hands and inspects the irritated skin. After a moment, he says, "Allergies—of course. Did those fools even _look_ at your medical file—? No, don't answer that," he cuts the other off. "And I was calling you an idiot flat-out, Newton, there was no mucking around and hiding behind nicer words there."

Newt tips his head to the side and blinks at Hermann slowly, as if assessing for— _something_. "Well," he says, at length, "I'd argue it _is_ nice. You haven't called me _anything_ in the last decade."

"I'm sure I cursed you in private on more than one occasion," Hermann returns, not as drily as he intends, words slightly choked instead. He clears his throat a few times, blinks away the tears suddenly welling in his eyes. "Apologies," he murmurs, "I don't know why I'm crying. I'm not sad—I shouldn't be sad."

"Why not?" Newt questions, "Hermann, you have _every_ right to be sad. I mean, first off, _I_ wasn't there, so—"

"You're _incorrigible_ ," Hermann says, but his heart's not in it. "I hate you. You—you self-centred _kaiju-groupie_."

Newt's smile is tentative, but it's _there_. "See," he says, "that's the Hermann I remember. And that's _Doctor Kaiju-Groupie_ to you, mister. I didn't go through all of that just to have people forget my _title—_ "

"Oh yes, _ten years of experience, man, I'm so sorry_ ," Hermann mocks, almost without thinking about it, and then when he realises what he's said, draws in a sharp breath. "I—"

Newt grabs his hand before he can back away. "Hey," he says softly, "hey, hey, hey, it's okay, Hermann. It's okay. I'm not going to break like some sort of ancient reliquary just because you say the wrong thing, okay? And anyway, it _was_ funny."

"I don't want to hurt you," Hermann says, a tremble in his voice, but he doesn't pull away. "I—I spent too many years doing just that. I don't want to go back to that, Newton."

The other lets out a harsh breath, and when he speaks, it's strangely stymied. "I don't want to, either. I don't know if—if I even _could_."

" _Good_ ," Hermann says, decisively, and squeezes Newt's hand. "Now, let's get out of here and get you into a set of clean clothing. Those look _horrid_."

This time, Newt's smile is wide—his eyes are a bit wild, dried blood flecking his skin in various places, hair wild, but—

He smiles.


	70. 70

**metamorphosis**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Hermann has never seen this man before, but God help him he recognises those eyes."**

* * *

"Shit," Newt hisses, eyes wide, panicked, "shit shit shit _shit_ ." His fingers fly over the keyboard, searching, searching—any possible mistake, any way that this could be a false alarm, it _has_ to be wrong. This can't—that can't _be him_. He'd never—

And yet, the files are there.

 _Kaiju cloning_ and _New Breaches_ and _Invasion_ , and without thinking of the repercussions, he'd opened it—foolish, foolish, _foolish_ and fuck, he can't—he's frozen.

The file loads up, graphs and charts and data and lines upon lines upon lines of code, _his_ code, code he's written but he doesn't _remember_ —

"What's _wrong with me?_ " he snarls, desperation and fear, because there's this sensation of impending doom, if anyone, anyone at _all_ sees these, it'll be the _end_ , the end of their _plan damnit_ —

The thought brings him up short. _What_ plan? He doesn't have a plan—

And then, like an avalanche, it crashes over him; the kaiju masters, the _Precursors_ , and _of course it isn't_ your _plan_.

He can't stifle the horrified whimper that escapes him, presses his hand to his mouth. Without meaning too, he's biting his palm, the pain bringing tears into his eyes. He has to do something about this, he has to tell someone— _Hermann_ —

 _No_.

The word is loud, so loud it overpowers all other thoughts, leaves him reeling, shock, shock, _shock_ —

The computer beeps. "Unauthorised persons are attempting to access your files," it says, cool monotone. "Would you like to delete files?"

 _Yes_ , howls the collective, _yes, DELETE, they MUST NOT LEARN—_

Newt drags in a ragged breath, knows without ever thinking about it that this cannot be allowed to happen. " _N—no_ ," he croaks, "don't— _nng_ —"

"Files shared," the voice says, almost pleasantly, and Newt doesn't even have the chance to feel _relief_ because he's—

* * *

When Hermann bursts into Newt's quarters, it's in a disarray.

There's a laptop on the floor—broken almost fully in two, screen shattered. Clothes are thrown every which way, and papers litter the floor. It's a mess—not the controlled mess Newt usually keeps, but a genuine mess, as if someone came in and purposefully trashed the place.

Newton is nowhere to be found.

He tries to keep his breathing even, tries to concentrate—could it be that he did this himself?

It's the only possible answer—the files were on _his_ computer. Newton himself opened them from an email attachment—he did, he _did_ , even though Hermann's mind rebels at the thought, insists _It can't have been him, not him, not_ Newton.

Hermann pushes that aside, tries to numb himself, because it tastes like betrayal, bitter and clinging. "He must have fled," he says, aloud, though there's no one else in the room. "He realised that we were onto his plans and fled."

There's no trace of the other, though—no indication of where he might have gone.

"Doctor Gottlieb?"

It's one of the members of the hastily-pulled together investigative team—"We need you to leave so we can search the room," she says, hand on his shoulder. "Please, Doctor Gottlieb, if there's any hope of locating your partner—"

" _Colleague_ ," Hermann corrects dully.

"—colleague," she amends, "we need you to vacate the scene."

He swallows. "A—alright," he says, and backs out of the room, makes his way down the hall.

It's not until later that he sees his reflection, sees the tear-tracks on his cheeks.

* * *

They never find Newton.

He's still alive, though—Hermann can _feel_ it.

[He _has_ to be alive. Hermann doesn't think he could handle learning the biologist is dead.]

Six years later, the PPDC apprehends a man who's connected to Newt's kaiju cloning project in Lima, Peru. Hermann's only notified of it four days after the fact. Nevertheless, he gets on the first flight there as soon as he's informed of where they're holding him.

If there's any way that this man might possess knowledge of Newt's whereabouts, even the faintest lead, Hermann _has_ to know.

The holding cell isn't very large, barely enough space for the chair the prisoner's strapped into and a small, fold-up chair for one other person. Hermann settles himself into the wobbly-legged fold-up chair and sets his cane against the wall, fold his hands in his lap.

The man gives no indication of being aware of Hermann, head lowered, chin on his chest, eyes closed as if in sleep, and Hermann grits his teeth.

"My name is Doctor Gottlieb," he says, instead. "You were apprehended due to evidence that you were colluding in a project attempting to clone the extraterrestrial beings known as—"

"Kaiju, yes," the other interrupts, and Hermann almost starts in surprise.

Almost.

Instead, he just clears his throat. "Yes," he affirms. "However, that's not why I wish to speak with you. It is my impression that you may have information as to the whereabouts of an associate of mine—Doctor Newton Geiszler."

The other laughs, suddenly, long and high, hysterical almost. "He's _dead_ ," he hisses, venomously— _bitterly_ , Hermann thinks, even. "He's been dead for six _years_ ."

"He is _alive_ ," Hermann bites back, "I am _sure_ of it."

The other only hums, leaving Hermann to simmer in frustration. " _Say_ something!" he finally shouts, and the man offers him a thin smile.

"Tell me, Hermann, do you know what it feels like to have every inch of your skin remodelled, unable to do anything but watch helplessly?" he asks. "To have your identity stripped away from you, second by second at your masters' bidding?"

"I didn't give you permission to call me by my first name," Hermann says, sharply. "And no, I wouldn't, because I've never been part of a kaiju cult hellbent on destroying humanity."

The prisoner laughs again, but this time, it's jagged and mirthless. "Is that what you think of me?" he questions, "that I'm a—a kaiju _cultist?_ "

"It's the most logical conclusion," Hermann replies. "Especially given what you were attempting to achieve."

The other's eyes snap open, but they're still hidden by shadows. It's unsettling, to be able to feel someone's gaze on him without being able to meet it. "No, Hermann," he says, an odd quality to his words, a familiarity there that discomforts Hermann, "the masters I refer to aren't _human_ , silly man. Try again—you're smart enough to figure it out."

"... _kaiju masters?_ " Hermann breathes, after a moment, and the other's smile widens.

"Got it in one," he says, lifts his head, looks Hermann straight in the eyes, and Hermann chokes on his words.

He's never seen this man in his life, but God help him, he recognises those eyes.

They're Newton's eyes.

* * *

The sunlight falls on the both of them as they stand there on the roof, watching the sun rise, stains Hermann's skin from it's pale white to a golden hue, little wisps of hair escaping from the rest and creating a hazy, halo-like effect.

Hermann's eyes are closed, and he's reclining in his chair, expression serene, chest rising and falling lightly as he breathes, looking, for all the world, like he's asleep. He thinks perhaps this is what they mean when they say _beauty_.

"You needn't stand there like some sort of hovering cloud," Hermann says, without opening his eyes. "There's another chair right by my side—I know you saw it."

He swallows, almost reflexive, and says, "I shouldn't."

Hermann hums. "I think you should."

"What if I were to push you off the roof and to your death?" he asks instead of saying what he wants to, because he's not _used_ to saying what he wants to. He's not, really, and he's even less used to _wanting_. "Then where would you be?"

"Dead, I'd imagine," Hermann says drily, "sit. I've missed you."

This time, he does as told—it's not a suggestion, he's fairly certain of that; Hermann will manhandle him into the chair if he refuses, and he's still sore from being strapped into a chair for multiple consecutive weeks. "Alright," he says, as he does it, not quite sure the purpose of it. Perhaps he's simply ascertaining aloud that it _is_ being done.

A slow smile crawls across Hermann's face, and he turns his head, peers at him through his lashes. "I'm glad you're alright, Newton," he says, conversationally, without intent to hurt.

It still hurts, though. "Newton's been dead for six years," he replies, almost gentle, "in all but body. I'm no more Newton than you are the king of Mordor."

"Lord of Mordor," Hermann corrects, and he's not looking at him anymore, rather staring off towards the horizon. "And is he truly dead if he lives on in the memories of those who love him?"

"There isn't anyone who loves Hermann Schmidt," he replies. "That was made sure of."

Hermann sighs. He doesn't say anything, though he feels like the other wants to. Wants him to. So he says, "The sunrise here's more colorful than in Hong Kong."

"At the cost of your lungs, yes," Hermann agrees. "We should get back to Hong Kong—I think you'll like what they've done with the place. They light off fireworks from Otachi's skull every Chinese New Year's."

He wrinkles his nose. "That seems like a disaster waiting to happen."

The smile the other offers is small, wry. There's a buzzing sound, then, and Hermann starts for a moment before realising it's his phone. "Sorry," he says, "I should probably answer this."

He tunes out the conversation, instead focusing on the ever-brightening horizon, the steady creeping of golds and purples and greens. He doesn't remember ever seeing to sunrise, here, come to think of it—doesn't remember seeing much at all. Thinks he'll need glasses, actually, because six years without them is probably the reason everything is out of focus.

Voices the thought out loud once Hermann's done with the phone-call, leans over so he's closer to the other. "Black?" Hermann asks, belaying some sort of hidden meaning he's missing.

"I don't care." He shrugs, catches sight of Hermann's lock-screen.

It's a selfie, obviously—the quality isn't the best, but it depicts two men, Hermann and another, round-faced and wild-haired, and he's gazing at Hermann with what could be easily called adoration.

It's similar, he suspects, to what he himself feels towards Hermann. "Who's that?"

The wide-eyed look Hermann gives him registers as _surprise_ , though he's not sure why, and it's gone a second latter. When Hermann doesn't say anything, he swallows, asks, "Your partner?"

Hermann's expression is inexplicably soft. Instead of answering, he says, "I hope you know you're a hero."

He scoffs. "That's not true. I'm just a human who's made a shit-ton of bad choices and now the consequences are finally catching up with me. And don't deflect my question. Who is it?"

"I suppose you could say _partner_ ," Hermann says, "and a hero isn't faultless. Sometimes, they're the ones who fall the furthest and risk breaking so the rest of us don't have to."

"What happened to _poetry, politics, promises?_ " he mocks. Lightly, though. "Current partner?"

"That all depends on you," Hermann says, and he gets the distinct impression that Hermann is watching him with a hawk-like intensity—confirmed when he glances at the other. "I would like that very much, as a matter of fact, but like I said—that hinges on you."

A frown, he thinks, is what's playing across his face. "Don't get me wrong," he starts, "I'm—touched, or whatever, but are you seriously going to just— _not_ make a move if I don't like him? That's nice of you, to consider my input, but come on, Hermann, you can't put your life on halt because of me."

Hermann shakes his head. "As always, you're one step behind," he says, but there's a fondness there, and this time, he gets the joke.

"I'm not," he says, nearly petulant, throws in a pout for good measure because he can.

The physicist's sigh is more dramatic than anything, this time, and he says, "That's you and that's me. And I hope… _us_."

"… _me?_ " he asks, at length. "Oh. I'd…forgotten."

The realisation brings tears forth, suddenly, anger and frustration and deep-seated melancholy all in one, and he makes as if to wipe them away, but can't follow through with the motion.

The distinct lack of tattoos on his arms shouldn't be this painful, and yet it is, because it was a part of him, and now that it's gone, he's not the same. He's not _Newton_ , really, and he doesn't know if he ever will be.

"You don't have to," Hermann reasures, and his hand's on his cheek, fingers unexpectedly callused, cold. "I wouldn't expect you to, you know."

He blinks rapidly. "Okay," he says, "I—okay."

Hermann smiles.

* * *

The apartment is small—located on the first floor, it has a joint living room and kitchen area, a small bathroom and a bedroom. Hermann spends ages fussing over the bed, offers to acquire another mattress or—

"No, thanks," he says, and the words feel cottony in his mouth, pushes forward anyway because he can see that Hermann wants this just as much as he does. "I sleep better with human contact, anyway."

That much is true—and it's something he's been deprived of, as well. The lines of tension painting Hermann sharply defuse. "Alright," he says. "Would you like anything to eat?"

He blinks. "…eat?"

" _Yes_ ," Hermann says, impatient, but it's familiar. "You know, the act of consuming edible materials so that your body can function?"

"I know what _eating_ means, Hermann," he snaps. Well, he did. He does. "I was just—surprised. We ate on the plane ride over." They did—or, Hermann ate, somehow proficient with the flimsy utensils provided, his own vegetable noodle meal gone within minutes while he simply picked at his own, only managed to eat a few bites before losing his appetite.

Hermann frowns at him. "You played with your food, that's not the same thing. Take-out or pancakes?"

"Have you got chocolate chips?"

"I have ice cream," he offers. "Strawberries, too."

He sighs. "Alright, alright. I can help, though."

"You _cannot_ ," Hermann says sternly, "you cannot _see_ properly. We need to get you glasses."

The though of being in another cool, air-conditioned office makes his breath stutter, choking in his throat, and—

Hermann's hand on his shoulder; concern on his face. "Are you alright?" he asks, softly. "Is it something I said?"

 _No_ , he wants to say, instinctive, _no I'm fine_ , because admitting otherwise is showing weakness, but his traitorous body's already revealed it, hands shaking, lip trembling, and when he tries to speak it's a muffled whine.

Hermann's eyes widen. "I—" he flounders, pulls him into a hug instead. He lets his head rest on Hermann's shoulder, the tears wetting the fabric of his shirt. "It's alright," Hermann murmurs, "let is out, let it all out."

He sniffles, presses his eyes shut. "I haven't cried in years," he says, more evenly than he thought he could. Then, "do we _have_ to go to an optometrist?"

"Not if you don't want to," Hermann reassures, "there are kits you can buy for home use, if you'd prefer that."

 _Oh_. "Yeah," he says, "um. Yeah, I'd like that. If—if that's okay."

"Of course," Hermann says, warmth in his tone. "Now, let's get you something to eat, alright?"

"Okay," he agrees.

The pancakes aren't much—Hermann hasn't put in nearly enough baking powder, he thinks, but it's nice, to sit on the sofa together and eat them, the strawberries sweet and just that side of ripe where they're a deep, ruby red, and afterwards, as promised, there's ice-cream.

For the first time in years, he thinks he might just feel a bit like Newton Geiszler again.

* * *

When Jacob calls, a few days latter, it's unexpected; Hermann's busy with a project, and Newt is looking through a glasses catalogue online, now that they've got his prescription.

"What do you think about these ones?" he asks, pointing to a pair of gaudy cat's-eye glasses. Neon pink, Hermann notes. _Horrifying_ , he doesn't say.

Instead, he sighs. "Do you _want_ to blind yourself and everyone in your vicinity?" he asks.

Newt shrugs. "Eh," he says, noncommittal, and scrolls down a bit. "How about—"

He doesn't finish his sentence, cut off by the shrill ringing of an incoming call from Hermann's phone, practically jumps in surprise, eyes wide, before Hermann sets a hand on his arm and picks up the phone.

"Oh," he says, relaxing minutely, "who is it?"

Hermann checks the caller ID. "Your father." Then, more gently, because he can feel the way Newt's stiffened, "I can hang up if you don't feel like—"

"No, it's—it's fine," he cuts in, voice high, swallows, and says, more evenly, "no, it's fine. Go ahead."

"If you're certain," Hermann murmurs, and answers.

The screen shows Jacob Geiszler's face for a moment before it blinks out, goes totally black, and then there's a scuffle. "Hang on a sec Hermann," Jacob says, "I accidentally flipped the camera around—"

"You do that _every time_ ," scolds Illia.

By his side, Newt is no longer as tense—there's even the beginnings of a smile. "Swipe up from the bottom of the screen," he advises.

There's a pause, and then the camera flips around, shows Illia and Jacob peering at the screen, matching expressions of hope on their faces. "Newt?" Jacob asks, as if hardly daring to believe it.

Hermann cats a glance at the other, suddenly worried, because what if—

"Yeah," Newt says, slightly choked, "it's me, dad."

The two men break into wide grins. "I _knew_ I recognised that voice," Illia says, "how are you?"

"I—" he swallows, looks to Hermann. Hermann lowers his hand from where it is on the other's arm, slips it into his hand and offers a reassuring squeeze. "…better," he says. "I'm doing better."

He motions to Hermann for the phone.

"Are you sure?" Hermann asks, quietly, and he nods.

"Hey dad, hey uncle Illia," Newt says, the words hesitant, "I missed you guys."

There's a second of silence, and Newt's face crumbles—

"Bastards couldn't get rid of the Geiszler nose," Jacob says, proudly.

"Or the voice," Illia chimes in. "You still have that god-awful squeak."

Newt smiles—relief. "I guess if evil alien overlords can't get rid of it, nothing can, huh?" he says.

"Nope," Jacob says, "we Geiszlers are a stubborn bunch."

"You can say _that_ again," Hermann mutters, not intending for anyone to hear it, but Newt does, and he laughs, carefree.

It's good, Hermann realises. It feels…good.

* * *

Later, as they lay in bed, Hermann by his side, leeching warmth from Newt's skin just by proximity—the man is a veritable icicle, honestly, it's kind of ridiculous—Newt says, quiet, "Thank you."

"What for?" Hermann asks, voice muffled into Newt's shoulder.

He swallows. _For everything_ , he can't bring himself to say. "For keeping in touch with my folks," he says, instead. "For letting them know what happened."

Hermann shifts minutely. "That's what partners do for each other, isn't it?" he says.

Newt's smiling without even meaning to. "Yeah," he says, "I guess it is."

"Then there's nothing more to be said," Hermann says firmly. "Now, be quiet and go to sleep."

* * *

Newt eventually settles on a pair of rimless, black-lensed glasses.

"You look like a movie villain," Hermann says, deadpan, from where he's sitting, and Newton laughs with more an edge of lunacy than Hermann thinks was really called for, even to make his point.

"I'm Darth GlassesMan, and I'll conquer this planet!" he says theatrically, leaning fully into the role, and throws his arms out in a sweeping gesture.

Hermann laughs in spite of himself. "The only thing you should be conquering is your inability to sit properly," he says, but his heart isn't in it.

Newt grins and sits down beside him—sprawls _on_ him, actually. "You love me anyway," he says, ignoring Hermann's momentary indignant sputtering.

Hermann sighs. "God help me," he says, "I do."


	71. 71

**tell me please (all is forgiven)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **It's the screams that get him.**

 **He's not sure how he ends up there, the minutes prior to it a blur, _panic_ and _fear_ and _pain,_ but not his, not his—Newton's, and then he's shoving his way past the medical personnel.**

 **Newt's huddled in a corner, rocking slightly, eyes wide and terrified, and another one of the nurses reach for him—**

 **" _Stop!_ " Hermann shouts, practically knocks the nurse over, throws himself in front of Newt as if shielding him. "Stop, can't you see, he's—he's _terrified!_ "**

 **They murmur amongst themselves, and Hermann shifts from foot to foot warily, a snarl just below the surface, ready to hurt anyone who tries to touch Newt—"**

* * *

For days, Newton just sits in the cell, head bowed, silent. He doesn't respond to any of the interrogation attempts, and the only indication he's still alive the steady stream of data from the machines monitoring his vitals.

It's been two days since he's been declared free of any and all influence from the Precursors, and Hermann's beginning to worry. Newton's lack of any sort of reaction whatsoever ignites a spark of panic within him. The glazed quality of his stare frightens Hermann—this is not the Newton Geiszler he knew sitting there.

He looks broken.

It _hurts_. It hurts more than it should.

Hermann would like to pretend he doesn't know why, but he does, he knows all too well, because, in the end—

Well, in the end, it's all his fault. He's the one who knew Newt most intimately—he should have noticed something was wrong, should have seen the terror in Newt's eyes on the landing pad when he'd boarded Shao's helicopter, should have heard the hollow ring to his words, the way he was distracted, off—

 _Newton Geiszler, but a little to the left, give or take a kaiju brain,_ murmurs the little bit of him that sounds suspiciously like Newton during the war. He bites his tongue, squares his jaw.

Ranger Pentecost notices first, says, unusually gentle, "You care about him a great deal, don't you?" and it's more of a statement than a question.

Hermann offers a bitter smile. "I do, for whatever that's worth anymore." In his mind, the voices clamour, _How can you claim to care for him after you practically threw him off the proverbial cliff?_

"You should go in and see him," the ranger suggests, "maybe seeing you'll help." He pauses for a moment, then adds, more softly, "And while you're in there, tell him...tell him we're sorry, yeah? _I'm_ sorry."

There's something in his tone—pain, Hermann thinks. He almost lost his sister that day, and Mako's still in the hospital, but—

She's going to be alright.

 _What for?_ he almost asks, doesn't, because all of this happened as a result of Newt's first Drift, the Drift that helped end the war. He swallows, feels, all of a sudden, wrong-footed, turns away so that the other doesn't see the tears that spill, unwanted, down his cheeks.

Coward that he is, he puts it off for as long as possible, dreads the moment—

It's the screams that get him.

He's not sure how he ends up there, the minutes prior to it a blur, _panic_ and _fear_ and _pain_ , but not his, not his—Newton's, and then he's shoving his way past the medical personnel.

Newt's huddled in a corner, rocking slightly, eyes wide and terrified, and another one of the nurses reach for him—

" _Stop!_ " Hermann shouts, practically knocks the nurse over, throws himself in front of Newt as if shielding him. "Stop, can't you see, he's—he's _terrified!_ "

They murmur amongst themselves, and Hermann shifts from foot to foot warily, a snarl just below the surface, ready to hurt anyone who tries to touch Newt—

"Doctor Gottlieb?" A hand on his arm, and Hermann snaps back to earth.

" _What?_ " he hisses.

The nurse—young, perhaps early twenties—swallows nervously. "H—he hasn't e—eaten," he stammers. "We were afraid—"

 _Oh_ , Hermann thinks, and bites the inside of his cheek. "Alright," he says, more evenly than he thought possible. "I'll—I'll make sure that he eats something. But if anyone touches him—"

"Got it!" exclaims the nurse, more than a little fearfully.

He doesn't know how long it is before the room is clear—he's focused solely on Newton, trembling in the corner, aches to gather him into his arms, but—no, he cannot do that. Instead, he says, as gently as possible, "Newton?"

The other gives him a wild-eyed look, whimpers—

Oh, how that breaks Hermann's heart.

He feels useless, hovering here, but he can't touch Newton, cannot risk making it worse. "Newton," he says, again, softly, and this time, the other's expression is just a little less frightened, so he repeats himself, lowers himself to the floor and lets Newt's name become a mantra, and slowly, slowly, Newt calms.

Finally, when his breathing evens out, eyes focused on Hermann instead of off into the distance, Hermann says, "Newton, can you stand?"

"I—" the other starts, and his voice cracks. He swallows, shakes his head.

"Alright," Hermann says, as calmly as he can. "Are you comfortable with waiting a moment as I fetch you something to eat?"

There's another moment, and then Newt croaks, "N—no, I—"

"Shh, it's alright," Hermann soothes, "I can ask one of the nurses to bring us something, alright? I just need to pop out into the corridor for a moment, alright?"

This time, Newt gives a tentative nod. Hermann could almost cry with relief.

It takes a while for them to fetch something that resembles actual food. Newt's still sitting in the corner, but he's no longer folded in on himself, no longer trying to make himself as small a target as possible.

"Here," Hermann says softly, passes him the tray. The only utensil they've afforded him is a plastic spoon, and that troubles Hermann more than he'd like to admit. Watches with bated breath as Newt stares at the food for a moment as if it's something alien, unknown.

He looks back at Hermann, searching. "Can I—?"

Hermann's thoughts shudder to a halt at the hesitancy in his tone. " _Yes_ ," he says, emphatically, almost choking on the words, "yes, of course you can, Newton."

Newt eats like a bird—small bites, eyes darting rapidly around the room, as if afraid that this, too, will be taken from him, and Hermann wishes he could pull the other into an embrace, tell him there's no need to fear that, not anymore, not when Hermann's here.

He doesn't, though, just watches the other, makes encouraging noises whenever he starts looking like he's going to panic. "Water?" he offers, once the biologist has finished his admittedly meagre portions, and holds out the styrofoam cup when he nods, careful that their fingers don't brush.

The other gulps the water down and stares blankly at the empty cup for a moment, licks his lips and coughs.

"Would you like some more water?" Hermann asks.

"Y—yes, please," Newt manages, quietly, not quite meeting his gaze. "T—thank you."

Hermann presses his lips together in an attempt not to burst into tears.

After that, Newt drifts off to sleep, still sitting on the ground. Hermann would try and figure out a way to move him to a bed, except—

Except the sound of Newt's terrified screaming still play through his mind on loop, and he cannot bear to cause a similar—or worse—reaction. But he can't—he can't—

He can't _leave_ Newt here, shivering in his sleep, pressed against the wall. The very thought of doing so disgusts him—no, he can't leave Newt. Not again.

Never again.

The time it takes to return to his quarters and fetch pillows and blankets seems to stretch like molasses, slow and dark, cloyingly sweet somehow. He knows he must be a sight, barely able to balance two pillows and an equal amount of blankets, but that's not his main concern; Newt is.

Newt's frowning in his sleep, mouth pulled into a thin white line, but it's trembling, just the tiniest bit, and behind closed eyelids, his eyes flicker rapidly. As much as he hates to wake him, though, Hermann is afraid the other will catch a cold in his sleep.

"Newton," he says, as softly as he can while still being loud enough to rouse the other, "Newton, wake up. I've brought you a blanket and a pillow."

The other's eyes snap open, and for a second, he stares at Hermann without recognition, tense, ready to flee—

And then he registers where he is, lets out a little, " _Oh_."

"I didn't want to wake you, but..." Hermann trails off, gestures to where he's set the blanket, folded neatly, and the pillow, by Newt's side. "I figured if you weren't able to get up quite yet, the least I could do was make sure you're comfortable."

The way Newt stares at him—wide-eyed, as if expecting Hermann to pull the rug from beneath him is heartbreaking, and his lungs feel like they've been doused in gasoline and lit aflame.

Newt worries his lip for a moment before reaching, tentatively, to the items, as if afraid he'll be bitten the moment he touches them. "Thank you," he says, nearly inaudible, and offers Hermann a watery smile.

* * *

He can't see properly—not without his glasses, and he hasn't worn those in years, but he can see Hermann, blurry, kneeling in front of him. _Please, just reach out_ , he wants to beg, _needs_ Hermann to touch him, knows, somehow, that physical contact with the other will make this awful buzzing go away, but—

Well, of course Hermann doesn't want to touch him.

Why would he?

Newt closes his eyes, remembers staring into Hermann's own, terrified, as his hands tighten around the other's neck, and he can't do anything about it, why isn't Hermann _fighting_ this? He should be trying to break free; instead, his hands are rubbing Newt's own, damnably gently, and there's acceptance there, along with the fear.

The only thing lacking is a spark of _defiance_ ; in its place is something sickeningly like serenity.

He swallows and opens his eyes, peers at the physicist, but the image is burnt into his mind.

So he offers a weak smile, watches, relieved, as the worry's wiped away.

Hermann props the other pillow against the wall, a few feet away from him, and lowers himself to the ground, unfolds the other blanket and draped it over his lap. For a second, hope flutters like a particularly giddy firefly in Newt's ribcage, just below his heart— _maybe he does care_ , but—

That's ridiculous. He shouldn't get his hopes up like this, not for Hermann, who deserves far better, who, more likely than not, is only doing this out of a misplaced sense of guilt; he must blame himself for this, because that is who Hermann is, but in reality, Hermann carries the least blame of them all.

He's the only one who tried to help Newt, even if it was too little, too late, in the end, the first Drift had already corrupted his mind.

His emotions regarding the other are tangled—they always have been, but with the Precursors' interference, he's not even sure that the fondness he feels, the affection he has—

Are they legitimate? Or are they manufactured, an attempt to get him closer to Hermann, to trap him as well? No—

They can't be. He refuses to entertain the thought. These are _his_ feelings, however one-sided; for good or bad. They cannot rob him of his certainty in this as well.

"Newton?"

He blinks, unsure of when he closed his eyes; he must have fallen asleep, but he has no memory of it, no memory even of laying down, because last he knows, he was propped up in the corner. When he opens his mouth, the words feel cottony as they tumble out. "I—Hermann, what—?"

Suddenly, mortifyingly, he realises he's got drool on his cheek. He wipes it away hurriedly, tries again. "Hermann?"

There's a second, and then Hermann appears in his line of sight. "Yes, Newton, it's me," he says, patient, more so than he should be. "Can you stand up?"

"I—" Newt thinks on it for a moment. Will his legs buckle like they did last time?

Well. Only one way to find out.

Hermann lets out a strangled sound as he rises to his feet, too fast, and almost pitches forward, vision spotting black. "I'm f—fine," he croaks, steadying himself against a wall. "Give me a—give me a moment."

He gets the distinct impression that Hermann is frowning at his, doing that little thing he does whenever Newt does something stupid—brows furrowed, biting his lip without realising it. "Alright," he says, after a few seconds, reluctant, "but if you can't—"

"I _can_ ," Newt says, stubborn. _I_ have _to_. Still, though, the fact that the other doesn't move to steady him is starkly obvious.

Despite common assumption, Hermann's actually pretty tactile—a hand on a shoulder, leg brushing his, standing just a hair's-breadth closer so their fingers brush. All of these, though, are things that have been notably absent.

Newt tries not to let that sting. It makes sense—Hermann only does that with people he trusts, and god knows he has plenty of reason to never trust Newt again.

Finally, he can see properly again—well, as properly as before. He grimaces at that.

Hermann's voice breaks him out of his thoughts. "We should get you a change of clothes," he says, "and you could do with a shower."

At that, Newt cracks a smile. "Probably," he agrees.

There aren't as many people in the hallways as Newt expects; it's a relief, really, because he doesn't know how they'd react to seeing him. Instead of letting his thoughts stray down that path, he clings more tightly to the pillows and blankets he's carrying, tries to imagine that he can smell Hermann's shampoo.

He can't, of course; that's not how these things work.

Still, it's nice to pretend.

It's not until they get to a door and Hermann pulls out a key, fiddles with the lock, that Newt thinks to ask what he's doing.

"Unlocking the door to my quarters," Hermann says. "I've got a shower you can use, and clean clothes."

"Oh," Newt says, because what else _can_ he say. "Okay."

For a second, they just stand there in the hallway, Hermann staring at him as he stares at the open door, blankets and pillows held against his chest, and then Hermann clears his throat. "The, ah, towels are in the drawers under the sink," he says, and then, with more hesitancy, "Ranger Pentecost asked me to pass on his apologies for your treatment."

That leaves Newt winded, because—

Well, what's he supposed to _say_ to that?

So instead, he steps over the threshold, sets the blankets, folded neatly, onto Hermann's bed and practically flees into the bathroom.

The shower is more luxurious than anything he remembers being in—well, there was a jacuzzi in the penthouse, but he doesn't...he doesn't want to think about that. The water is practically scorching—focus on that, instead, he should.

Yeah, he should focus on that.

Thanks, inner Yoda.

By the time he's gotten himself to what feels decently clean, the water's hot instead of scalding. His hair, he suspects, smells like cucumber, because that's the only shampoo Hermann has, which, really—

Yeah, he should've expected that.

It's nice, though, the thought that it could, theoretically.

That, though, makes him think of Hermann, which is Not Great, because—

Because he tried to fucking _kill_ him.

His best friend in what is probably all the world, and Newt tried to choke him to death. He stares blankly at the white-tiled wall.

Right. He should...he should probably get out.

Hermann's left a change of clothes for him hung up on the hook on the back of the door at some point while he was showering—Newt's not sure how he didn't realise the other came in, but whatever—that consists of a decent-ish button-up and a pair of slacks.

He wraps the towel around himself, toga-style, opens the door and tries not to shiver as all the cold air rushes out. "Hermann," he attempts to whine, even though it comes out sounding more like he's sick with how scratchy it is, "Hermann, you didn't give me any underwear."

That results in sputtering, on Hermann's part, at least, and takes a good ten minutes to sort out, but it does get sorted out, in the end.

Hermann's still not touching Newt, though, and that—that hurts. A lot.

Any time Newt tries to move closer, to brush against him even _casually_ , Hermann shies away. The worst part is, he doesn't even seem to realise that he's doing it, and Newt winds up feeling both cold and horrible, because he should just _stop_ , obviously Hermann doesn't want to touch him, but—

God, he can't.

He bites his tongue; wonders, not for the first time, if he'll ever be able to stop fucking things up.

"Thanks for the clothes," he says.

Hermann offers an altogether too curt nod. "Of course," he says. "And—" he pauses, looks, for a second, like he wants to say something different, before he continues, "I've just been informed that you've been given quarters down the hall from mine, for as long as...as long as you wish to remain here."

" _Wish?_ " Newt scoffs.

The other swallows. "Yes, well," he says, sounds maybe just the littlest bit pained, "they can't keep you, now that you've been cleared. I do believe that they'd be more than happy to hire you, though, if you wished."

Newt stares at him, until finally, Hermann fidgets. "I—the door should be unlocked," he tries, "it's four doors down to the left, the keys should be on the table inside."

"Thanks," Newt says, "I'll, um. Go, then."

Hermann nods, doesn't meet his gaze; Newt tries not to feel like he's had the wind knocked out of him.

The room is, as Hermann guessed, unlocked; the keys are in the lock, though, which is slightly disconcerting. Newt pulls them out and tries not to think too much about the prospect of getting locked out, or worse, getting locked _in_.

It's frighteningly impersonal; reminds him too much of ultra-modern art on walls and stupid fruit bowls and brains in yellow-green fluid and Hermann's—

 _Yeah,_ no, he thinks, as firmly as possible. _Let's not do this right now, maybe?_

There's a few changes of clothing in the closet—t-shirts and jeans, mostly, but there's a few pairs of capris, as well, and the bed's neatly made, the edges tucked in perfectly.

The aching hits him suddenly, like a truck—before, yeah, it _hurt_ , that Hermann wasn't touching him, but now? Now it burns like dry ice. Newt chokes back a sob, not willing to let it escape, because maybe if he doesn't this won't be real, maybe he can—

What, wake up in a fantasy world where Hermann is just as enamoured with Newt as Newt is with him?

Pathetic.

He thinks he's going to—

What, die? That'd be doing the world a favour, really.

He crawls under the covers still fully-clothed, wraps his arms around himself and pretends, for a few seconds, that the weight on him is that of Hermann's arms; cries until he can't cry any longer and falls into a fitful sleep.

* * *

The rest of the week passes uneventfully. Hermann tries not to worry about Newt—he's obviously doing better, if the lack of bruise-like bags under his eyes are anything to go by. They're a little red, though, but it's probably just allergies.

In the interest of acclimating him to the rest of the shatterdome, Hermann offers to show him his lab, proper. "Not the office," he clarifies, "that was...that was a bit of a mess, and, well, you've already _seen_ it—"

"It's fine," Newt says, and Hermann wonders if he caught sight of the photo before Hermann swept it aside and under some other papers. He wonders if Newt remembers any of that, if any of it was—

No, of _course_ it wasn't. He takes another bite of the lukewarm excuse for cheesecake and tries to focus on the way it tastes too sweet instead the way Newt's smile looks like broken glass badly glued together.

"Alright," he says, and finishes the last of it, rises to his feet. "Well. Follow me."

What he expects is for Newt to enthuse over the equipment in the lab, perhaps needle Hermann about the giant chalkboards.

What he doesn't expect is silence.

He almost doesn't notice at first, too caught up in rapid-fire sentences strung together quicker than they should be, trying to fill the gap between them, doesn't notice until he turns around mid-gesture and catches sight of the other's face, ashen and drawn.

That brings him to a halt, though. "Newton?" he asks, "are you—are you quite alright?"

The biologist doesn't answer. His eyes are glazed, staring over Hermann's shoulder, and Hermann tracks his gaze to find—

A diagram of a kaiju brain.

 _No_ . A diagram of a very _specific_ kaiju brain— _Alice_.

He turns around, apologies spilling from his lips, but Newt doesn't hear a single one; his chest is rising and falling rapidly as he drags in ragged breaths, backs away—

He hits a table and crumples to the ground, but he doesn't seem to realise. "Newt!" Hermann exclaims, frantic now, because he _knows_ what's happening but there's nothing he can do—"Newton, it's alright," he tries, because he doesn't know what _else_ to do besides to attempt to reassure the other that it's not real, it's not _real_. "It can't hurt you, it's just a drawing, just chalk on chalkboard, it's—"

The terrified whimper that escapes Newt is heart-wrenching, and without thinking about it, Hermann leans forward and pulls Newt into an embrace.

"I'm sorry," he cries, hands rubbing the other's back, because Newt is going to hate him for this as soon as he can speak, he's doing the one thing he swore not to do, crossing all of the invisible lines with this, but he can't think of any other way to help. "I'm sorry, Newton, I'm sorry, I'm sorry darling, I'm sorry..."

He doesn't know how long they remain there, on the floor of the lab, Hermann's arms around Newt, rocking him very, very gently, murmuring apologies into his ear, his head in the crook of Hermann's neck, hands gripping the fabric of Hermann's shirt like a life-line.

Finally, the trembling subsides, the gasping, ragged breaths turn into slower, quieter, more even ones. Hermann begins to pull away—there's no excuse, not anymore, and he doesn't want to make this worse—

"D—don't go." Newt's hand's on his shoulder, and he stares at Hermann beseechingly. "Please, Hermann, I just," he stops, struggling with the words for a moment before he crumbles. "I c—can't bear not touching you," he murmurs, brokenly.

"I—" Hermann swallows. _I thought you didn't want me touching you_ , he almost says, but that's not a conversation for now. That can be discussed later. Now, Newt needs him.

He's hesitated too long, apparently, because Newt folds in on himself, arms pulling away from Hermann to wrap around himself, expression pained and miserable. "You c—can g—go," he says, "I d—don't want to keep—I don't want to keep you f—from w—work—"

" _No_ ," Hermann says, forcefully, "I'm not leaving you." And then, tentative, he reaches toward the other—

Newt practically launches himself into Hermann's arms, clings to him like he's going to disappear if he doesn't. He sniffles, and on instinct, Hermann brings his arms up around the biologist, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back. "It's alright," he murmurs, "it's alright, Newton, you're safe now."

"I love you," Newt says, muffled; non-sequitur, and that makes Hermann smile, just the tiniest bit. "For l—longer than you know."

He lapses into silence—not expecting anything from Hermann. That's not how Newt is; it never has been. He says what he feels and lets that be that regardless of anyone else's convictions.

Perhaps before Hermann would've let the words be met by silence, but—

It's been ten years. He's got an awful lot to say.

"I love you, too," he says, short, simple, and sitting there on the floor of the lab, his partner in all senses of the word in his arms, he thinks he understands what people mean when they say the world's a brighter place when you love someone.


	72. 72

**lay your weary head to rest**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt is bored out of his mind."**

* * *

"To be, or not to be…that is the question."

Hermann sighs, feeling the urge to rub his temples rise, and instead settles on rolling his eyes. "You needn't be so dramatic," he says.

The other whirls around, the sheet functioning as a makeshift cape tied around his neck billowing behind him, and scowls. "Hermann," he says, and then, again, with more emphasis, " _Hermann_ , I'm _bored_."

"And what do you want _me_ to do about it?" Hermann asks.

The other's scowl widens. "My stuff won't arrive for at least a _week_ ," he complains.

Hermann hums, attention diverted back to the laptop where the program's finally decided to open after ages of stalling. "Draw," he suggests, "or cook, or take a walk, or any of a thousand things, Newt—"

Newt sighs deeply. "No one loves me," he moans.

Hermann ignores him.

Newt lets out another deep sigh and throws his arms up. "I hate you all," he gripes, and wanders off into the bedroom. Despite himself, Hermann's lips twitch—Newt's dramaticity _is_ a bit amusing, after all, though he'll never let the other know that. Newt's ego doesn't need to get any larger than it already is.

It's not until hours later that Hermann begins to suspect something afoot. His endeavours are usually disrupted at least once, but today, Newt's usual presence is missing—suspiciously so.

He stops typing, cocks his head to the side, and listens.

Nothing.

None of the distinctive sounds of Newt tinkering with something, or the hum of his voice as he sings, or the quiet—well, relatively quiet—sound of the keyboard—in short, there's nothing indicative of the other at _all_.

Hermann worries his lip—Newton, silent, is almost never a good thing.

The infrequent times he _is_ quiet are memorable—and usually not in a good way. The last time Hermann remembers it being like this was a few years ago, and that ended with—

[—Newt on the floor, seizing, eyes flickering rapidly behind closed eyelids, nose bleeding—

—He's still shaking half an hour later when he races off to chase down a black-market kaiju supplier—]

Hermann swallows, shakes his head, tries to banish the thought. Newt's fine, probably; Hermann saw him only a few hours ago. He can't've left the flat—Hermann would've heard him, so he's probably…sleeping, or something.

Still, though, it sits heavily on his mind, like an itch he can't quite scratch, distracts him from his work, and that is—

 _That_ is unacceptable. Of course Newt would find a way to distract him even in absentia.

He drags in a breath. There's no way he'll be able to get anything else done, not until he's assured himself that Newt is, indeed, just fine. With that in mind, he pushes his chair out, rises, and stretches.

"Newton?" he calls, because he's not going to go on a wild goose-chase if this can be solved more easily, "Newton, where are you?"

There's no reply, and Hermann orders himself to keep calm. There's no need to panic—he might just be wearing a headset and can't hear Hermann…though he can't remember the last time Newt actually put on headphones or earbuds, instead preferring to play his music loudly, a catalyst for more arguments than Hermann can count.

Newt's not in any of the usual spots—not the bedroom, not the guest room, not even, as on one particularly memorable occasion, curled up in the linen closet, somehow having contorted himself to fit in the space and then gotten stuck.

Now, though, his worry's mounting.

Out of ideas, he clears his throat, tries for a stern tone, hopes his voice doesn't waver. "Newton, you can come out now, I'm no longer amused—"

Suddenly, there's a _thunk_ and a yelp. "Ow, _shit!_ "

 _Newton_. Hermann breathes a sigh of relief—

Wait.

From the _bathroom?_

Hesitant, he tries the door, finds it unlocked. Inside, Newt's laying on the floor, blinking dazedly at the ceiling, and the bathtub's full, the water—

"I figured I'd draw you a warm bath for when you were done," Newt says, sheepish. "I came across one of those cool, uh, galaxy bathbombs Karla got you ages ago, but…I sort of fell asleep, and then when I woke up, you yelled, and I kind of fell—"

Hermann splutters. "I didn't _yell!_ " he protests, "I was simply…concerned for your wellbeing."

"You wanted to _save_ me," Newt coos. "You can't save me, Hermann, I won't let you—I'm perfectly capable of saving myself."

Hermann ignores that, instead makes his way over to the tub, sticks a hand in and swirls the water. "It's cold," he points out.

Newt deflates a bit. "Yeah, well, like I said," he gives a half-hearted attempt at a careless shrug. "I fell asleep."

Hermann turns and stares at him, shakes his head. "Newton Geiszler," he says, "you never fail to surprise me."

"That's good, right?" Newt grins.

Hermann smiles. "Well, I appreciate the sentiment," he says, "but maybe next time, let me _know_ so that I don't spend ages worrying about you." And with that, he turns around and pulls the plug, chuckling slightly at the mournful noise Newt makes.


	73. 73

**t** **wenty-four is more than half (of forty-seven)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Eventually there came a day Newt and Hermann were together for longer than they'd been apart."**

* * *

Newt's life is measured in ' _yes_ 's and ' _no_ 's, ' _can_ 's and ' _cannot_ 's and he delights in proving them wrong—the teachers, his peers, the people who doubt him; _prove it_ , they say, and Doctor Newton Geiszler, holder of, by many accounts, a truly ridiculous number of degrees, throws back his head and laughs in their faces.

 _Prove it_ , the world demands. _You can't do it._

"Watch me," Newt says, wild-eyed and teeth bared in a facsimile of a smile.

He measures things this way—and also, in the ' _before_ 's and the ' _after_ 's.

Hermann quantifies. He breaks things down to their base components and puts them together to make new strings of data, of commands. This, Newt suspects, is part of why they argue—they speak the same language, in the end, it's just that the paragraphs are structured differently.

It's the year after the eleven-year anniversary of the end of the War; the two year anniversary of Newt's mind being fully his own, and he says, quiet, mostly to himself, as he lays in bed, Hermann by his side, "We've been together longer than we've been apart."

Hermann shifts incrementally to face him. "Oh?" he asks.

"Mhm," Newt hums, eyes half-lidded, stares at the ceiling. "Twenty-four years, dude. That's more than half of forty-seven."

"We spent four of those years using, as you so kindly put it, _snail mail_ to communicate," Hermann says. He doesn't say, _We spent ten years apart_. That, Newt appreciates.

"You were in my heart the entire time," Newt replies—half teasing, but wholly genuine, "every year I wasn't with you, dude—I was thinking of you. _Missing_ you."

There's a silence, and, for a moment, Newt wonders wildly—has he said something wrong?—and then Hermann speaks again, and this time, his words are choked with emotion. "I—I missed you as well. Every day, Newton— _achingly_."

Newt draws in a breath—not startled, no, not really, but, perhaps, surprised. Instead of trying to parse the complicated flux of emotions—he's never been good at understanding them, not even at the best of times—Newt says, "Then I'd say that we've been together longer than we've been apart."

"By 0.5 years," Hermann scoffs, pretends to be miffed when Newt laughs—"Really, Hermann, you can say six months,"—but he can't disguise the smile that's there, tugging at the edges of his lips.

Newt offers one of his own and scoots closer so that he can press his palm to Hermann's cheek. Hermann gives him a startled look, wide-eyed—he does that every time. It's adorable. "I'm very attached to you, Hermann," Newt says.

That startles a huff out of Hermann. "You almost sound like _me_ ," he teases, smiling fully, now. "Perhaps we really _have_ been together that long."

"You betcha," Newt replies. "No, but really, like, your legs are trapping mine, dude, I can't fucking get _up."_

Hermann laughs. Shifts, again, so that Newt's legs are freed— _finally_. Hermann may be thin, but he's got some of the densest bones Newt's come across—and turns his head to press a chaste kiss to the inside of Newt's wrist. "I'm very attached to you, as well, Newton," Hermann says, and then they're quiet, content to just lay there in each other's presence.

* * *

Newt doesn't think about it, much—twenty-four is a good number. He marks them off, once, mentally, and then moves on, just a tiny bit more happy than before.

That's why he's confused when, one day, out of the blue, Hermann's up before he is, and he makes blueberry pancakes, and there's a small bouquet of flowers in a vase beside Newt's place.

"Good…morning?" Newt greets, slightly puzzled, and then, "oh, god, blueberry pancakes? Have I mentioned that I love you?"

Hermann passes him his plate. "Not just for my cooking skills, I hope," he says, drily, and pulls a chair out for himself. Newt, barely done wolfing down his third pancake, offers a muffled hum in response.

Once he swallows, he says, "So, this is nice, but just out of curiosity, am I forgetting something? Like an anniversary, maybe?"

The other offers a one-shouldered shrug and continues to spread butter on his own pancakes. "I simply thought to, ah," here, he pauses, clears his throat, something like a blush on his cheeks. "'Seize the moment,' as you put it."

Newt stops, blinks at him wordlessly for a moment. "Wait a minute," he says, slowly, "is this about the conversation we had the other day? Are you, Hermann Gottlieb, finally coming out of the closet as a romantic because I pointed out we've known each other for more than half our lives?" He pauses, then adds, as seriously as he can, "That's gay."

Hermann rolls his eyes. "I'm _married to you_ ," he points out. "I should _hope_ so. And yes," he says, before Newt can latch onto that train of thought, "that conversation, coupled with a few other things, was the catalyst for this."

"Aww," Newt says, "adorable."

Hermann scowls at him, but it's halfhearted.


	74. 74

**angel**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newton Geiszler: reluctant guardian angle"**

* * *

In the beginning—

Well, there was a beginning, or something; Newt wouldn't know, given he wasn't, well, _there_. Either way, there's a whole mess at the Start, what with Creation and all, and, well—Newt didn't pay attention, really.

At some point though, he suspects someone up and said "Fuck _this_ ," because honestly, that's fair, things were getting _boring_ and, well—well, that person was sort of Newt, yeah, so.

* * *

The point is, he's been stuck on Earth for the past two decades. So he does what he does best—bounces between interests, sleeps too little, sleeps too _much_ , gets a few degrees, gets some trauma, you know, everyday things.

"Sorry, _what?_ " Newt hisses at the angel by his side.

Samel offers nothing but a small tilt of the head. Newt resists the urge to bounce on his feet unsuccessfully, and this time, Samael scowls, says, "You've gone native, I suppose," in an annoyingly staid tone.

"Uh, _yeah_ ," Newt says. "But that doesn't give you the _right—_ "

"Who are _you_ to question the Plan?" asks the other.

"Fuck you," Newt replies, "I'm an atheist."

This time, Samael graces him with a stern look. "You're an _angel_ —albeit one who's soon to fall out of Grace if you do not do this."

"But _me?_ " Newt whines, "c'mon, dude, I'm not guardian angel material— _especially_ not for Doctor "Call me by anything but my title and get murdered by my glare" Gottlieb."

"Would you rather fall from Grace?" asks Samael—rhetorical, because who the _hell_ wants to _fall from Grace_ , that's what gets you _killed_ , or worse, and fuck, even being basically, for all intents and purposes, _human_ , is better than falling from Grace. Newt offers a nervous laugh, and Samael gives him a small nod. "Good, then. We are at an understanding," and—

"Fucking _angel_ ," Newt huffs after he stops coughing his lungs up from the smoke created by the other's disappearance.

Hermann, who has, somehow, managed to appear from out of nowhere, scowls at him imperiously. Newt, not willing to deal with _him_ , too, turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction.

See, the thing is—

The thing is, Hermann is—

Confusing.

Like, Newt hates him, sort of, which is weird, because angels are always harping on about "loving all of the Power's creations" which is, like, _dumb_ but Newt's never hated anything before, not even brussel-sprouts, which are awful, but—

What can that tightness in his chest, that stabbing sensation whenever Hermann's words are just a bit too biting, a bit too personal, _be_ besides hate?

The first time Newt actually has to _do_ anthing, though, isn't for over a year.

It's winter, though one can hardly tell given that the temperatures almost never drop bellow ten degrees. Hermann, however, somehow manages to catch a nasty strain of something that leaves him trembling like a leaf under his parka, hands shaking as he tries to write on his chalkboards.

Newt barely manages to ignore it for more than half an hour before the buzzing in the back of his head gets to be too much. "Alright, you know what?" he says, "fuck this," and snaps off his gloves, strides over the Line of Demarcation. " _Hermann_ ," he says, "Hermann, buddy, you need to lay down, _stat_."

"But my _work_ —" Hermann protests, only to be cut off by a rather violent sneeze that leaves him blinking down at Newt dazedly, cheeks slightly flushed in a way that's kind of charming.

Newt hates the fact that that thought crosses his mind, scowls, because he _hates_ Hermann, and his stupidly nice voice, and his stupidly nice _face—_

" _Yeah_ ," Newt says, "no. C'mon down, dude, let's get you into bed."

Somehow, he manages to get Hermann both down the ladder and down the hallways to his quarters. It's a bit of a minor miracle, honestly—Hermann's swaying rather alarmingly a good portion of the way.

Hermann crashes in his bed and Newt doesn't see him for eighteen hours.

Newt expects that to be that.

What he _doesn't_ expect is to develop something equivalent to a spider-sense in regards to Hermann.

(Hermann-sense?)

In the next four years alone, Newt loses track of the number of times he has to intervene to make certain Hermann doesn't die—often because the physicist is a stubborn _bastard_ who won't stop, hell or high water be damned.

"Can you at least _try_ and not die?" Newt snaps, the words slipping from his lips, two days after Hermann has a seizure from their Drift.

Hermann, laying in the white on white on white medical cot, offers him a raised eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I _was_ trying," he says, drily, "though I appreciate the implication that you are, if nothing else, annoyed by it."

"Oh fuck you," Newt says, without bite.

Hermann's lips twitch. "That wouldn't be advisable, given our current states," he says, deadpan, and Newt's suddenly hit with the shell-shocking clarity of, _Oh damn, it_ isn't _hate after all_.


	75. 75

**artist**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **Newt's catsitting.**

 **However, since it's Newt, of course something goes wrong."**

* * *

" _Fuck_ ," Newt hisses, frozen.

The door creaks further open, revealing Hermann standing in the doorway, agog, hand hovering roughly where the door handle was a second ago, and Newt, at a loss for what else to do—

Dives after Picatso while screaming.

Hermann screams, too, drops his cane to the floor with a clatter.

Newt falls short, the tabby haring away, leaps onto the sofa and out the window, back onto Newt's balcony while Newt crashes to the ground fairly painfully.

He lays there, dazed. After a moment, he registers the sound Hermann's shouting—angry, surprised, oh, _shit_ —"I'm not a burglar, I swear!" Newt exclaims, clumsily rolls over just enough that Hermann can see his face, and promptly passes out.

"Newton Geiszler," Hermann hisses, the instant the shock passes, but it's not like Newt, laying on the floor, can hear him; so he says, again, with more exasperation, "Newton _Geiszler_ ," because, really, what else _can_ he say?

He should wake the other up, admonish him for pulling a stunt like this, frightening Hermann like this, and yet—

And yet, Hermann finds himself hesitating, finds himself thinking, _No, I should make sure he's alright_ , this protective instinct he wasn't even aware he possessed, let alone in regards to an aggravating, loud-mouthed biologist.

For a moment, the two instincts—irritation and protectiveness—war within him, before he sighs, makes his way over to where the other's sprawled, kneels over, awkward. "Damn you, Newton," he murmurs, and makes an aborted movement to rake a hand through his hair.

After a bit of careful planning and admittedly clumsy execution of said plan, Hermann manages to get the other onto his sofa, legs thrown over the arm on one side, one of his own dangling off the side; not the most elegant, nor comfortable, but it is what it is, and, well, his worry only stretches so far, given that this is _Newt's_ fault, in the end.

Still, the other somehow manages to make even _this_ look…"cool". Hermann isn't sure if it's his own bias towards Newt or if the other is simply disgustingly decent-looking no matter what the situation—actually, it's probably the latter.

Really, it must be—Hermann's bias is wholly based upon false assumptions from their correspondences, a lingering affection he can't seem to get rid of for a man who isn't who Hermann thought he was.

Hermann sighs, again; blasted emotions.

He fetches a pillow.

Newt jolts to wakefulness, confusion his first feeling; a pillow pressing against his cheek. It takes him a few moments to remember what happened, and when he does, he bolts upright—

" _Don't_ ," Hermann warns, appearing by his side; too late.

He's hit with a wave of dizziness; slumps back down. "…shit," he croaks, "I think I fell pretty hard."

The look Hermann gives him suggests something along the lines of _You're an idiot, Newton_ , which, fair, but—" _This_ is what I get for trying to make sure Tendo's cat doesn't piss on your stuff or rip up your furniture?" he asks crossly.

Hermann raises a brow. "Tendo's cat?"

"Yeah," Newt says, "he flew up to stay with Alison for a bit, since, y'know, the war's over and he hasn't seen her in ages. He asked me to watch after his cat."

There's a moment where Hermann's expression is unreadable; then, stiltedly, "I…thank you, Newton," he says. He ruins it almost instantly, though, by adding, "I knew getting flats in the same building was a bad idea."

"Hey!" Newt protests, "this time it's not actually my fault! You left your window open!"

"I wasn't aware there was a _cat_ in the vicinity," Hermann fires back.

"Yeah, well—" Newt stops. " _Shit_ ," he groans, "the _cat_. Tendo's gonna _kill_ me if anything happens to him." He chews on the inside of his cheek, fingers fidgeting; anxious.

Hermann notices—he always does. "Would you like me to help you look for him?" he offers, a hand coming to rest on Newt's shoulder. Newt would normally refuse, _would have_ , _before_ , brushed him off, but—

"Yeah, thanks," he says, quietly, eases himself back up under Hermann's watchful gaze.

"Alright," Hermann says, "well, then." Then, more to himself, he repeats, "Well, then."

"I can't find him," Newt says, miserably, half an hour later. He bites his lip, tugs at his hair. "Hermann, Tendo's going to—"

"Be understanding," Hermann interrupts, voice slightly crackly due to the poor connection. "Calm down, Newton. Let's meet back at your flat and talk this out _calmly_ , alright? I'm sure that it'll turn out fine."

 _No it won't_ , Newt wants to snap; refrains. "Okay," he says, instead, "sounds good."

Hermann's waiting in front of the door when he gets back, and Newt unlocks it. "I need to sit down for this," he explains. "You can…sit, or not—"

"Newton," Hermann says.

"No, nope, don't—"

" _Newt_ ," Hermann says, more forcefully, and points behind him.

There, dozing on the chair, is Picatso. Newt scowls. "Fucker."

The twitch of Hermann's lips almost distracts him from his frustration.


	76. 76

**walk the line**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary: "** **After the Drift, when it's all said and done, Newt still leaves.**

 **Hermann is left behind, wondering if what they had truly meant so little that Newt didn't even have the decency to say goodbye."**

* * *

Hermann's first action after coming out of—or, perhaps more accurately, _falling out of_ —the Drift is to stumble, choke, and retch up bile in a discarded toilet. His fingers tremble as they grip the rim, his vision swimming; blood trickles down, onto his lip, the salty tang discomfiting, but he can't do anything about that _now_ ; as Newt would say, the world needs to be saved.

Peripherally, he sees Newton: bruised, bloodied, clothing ripped, torn, and covered in all manner of grime and kaiju fluids, and yet, strangely—

"Here," Newt says, from behind, pries one hand away from the porcelain, presses a handkerchief—is it his? It looks suspiciously like one of the ones that got lost in the transfer from the Anchorage shatterdome, oh well—to his palm, "you're bleeding."

Hermann heaves once more, then, shakily, wipes his mouth with the fabric. "I h—hadn't noticed," he says, drily, or tries to, but it comes out more as an unintelligible murmur. He clears his throat, ignores Newt's concerned look. "Fine," he manages, "I'm fine. But N—Newton, the plan—"

Words are hard; his tongue, heavy and numb, stumbles over them, and he feels a flash of panic at that—

"It's not going to work," the other completes, eyes wide. Hermann nods, tries not to pitch forward, still unsteady; ignored the way his stomach feels even more queasy when Newt darts forward, loops an arm around Hermann's waist and puts one of Hermann's over his shoulder.

Mouth suddenly cottony, Hermann asks— _croaks_ , really—, "How're we g—getting back?"

The grin Newt tosses him, wild, too wide, a bit _feral_ —sends a shiver up his spine. He doesn't answer, but the sudden, deafening _thwop-thwop-thwop_ of helicopter blades raking through the air is answer enough.

They hobble, ungainly, to where it lands; a great beast of a machine, the minutiae of which Hermann would normally take notice of, but now, his senses are swamped with _Newton_ —his hand on Hermann's back, the red ring around his eye; the soft rustle of his breath that Hermann shouldn't be able to hear above the roar of the motor, and yet manages to be the loudest sound.

"—Hermann? Hermann, dude, are you okay?" Someone's shouting—Hermann blinks, refocuses.

Newt's looking at him, worry easily visible, and Hermann realises, _Oh_ , he _must've been the one shouting_. He licks his lips, coughs—suddenly, inexplicably unable to summon the proper movements necessary to speak. "Hermann?" Newt shouts, again, "Hermann, c'mon, dude, we gotta go!"

"Right," Hermann manages, quiet, then, again, louder, slightly hoarse, "right!"

The seats within are cold, hard—the vibrations shake Hermann, jostle his leg, and he hisses. Newt, by his side, squeezes his shoulder. "Hey," he says—soft, this time, but Hermann can hear him perfectly. "You okay, man?"

"I—" Hermann presses his eyes shut—assembly lines, soaked in blue, inhuman chittering, the scrape of nail against guitar strings, the pain as needles pierce his skin; blinks; these memories are not his own. "...not certain," he settles for. "Breathing, though, if that helps."

The other cracks a smile. "Good," he says, "you hang in there, 'kay, Herms? We're gonna be back before you know it."

Hermann offers what he hopes is a reassuring nod, paired with a smile of his own, but he suspects it falls short—his movements are jerky, and he can't seem to get his mouth to cooperate for words, let alone for a smile; the blood dried on his skin is tightening, itching, and he drags a shaky hand across his mouth to try and get rid of it.

After a few unsuccessful attempts, Newt grasps his wrist. "Hey, Herms, lemme help."

Hermann's trembling—not just from the movement of the helicopter—and he can tell, distantly, that that worries Newt; worries him greatly, the gentleness as he wipes away the dried blood speaking volumes. "...thank you," Hermann says, at length, the words stymied.

"Yeah," Newt replies.

They lapse back into silence—silence, because, despite the roar of the blades above them, the howl of wind, everything seems silent, just the two of them in the whole world. Neither comment of the way Newt keeps his hand around Hermann's wrist, the way that Hermann, still trembling, leans into him; the way their breathing syncs, for a moment; calm.

* * *

LOCCENT bursts into cheers; the war is over. It's _over_ —

Hermann's legs wobble; threaten to give out. He grips the head of the cane tighter, grits his teeth. Relief mingles with pain—one bleeds into the other until he's not sure which is which. Newt's arm, thrown over his shoulders is an anchor, but only barely.

"I don't think I can stand," he tries to say, but his throat works soundlessly, the words cut off before he can even form them. He tries again—nothing. Panic rises; stripped of his means of communication, in pain—he—

Newt's face snaps into focus, his hand on Hermann's cheek. "Hermann?" he asks, eyes wide, "hey, are—are you okay? I can feel your panic—"

And just like that, Hermann finds he can speak again, _breath_ again, words spilling forth, rapid and disjointed. "I—my leg—I—"

He stumbles, nearly crashing into one of the J-techs, drags Newt with him. "Woah!" Newt exclaims, steadying him. "Hermann, hey, I've got you. I've got you, okay?" He pauses, and the silence is sharp, everything's swimming back out of focus—"Do you wanna get out of here?"

"Y—yes," Hermann croaks, leans against Newt more; he's the only thing that feels real, tangible—everything else, a mirage that'll disappear if Hermann touches them.

Newt nods, adjusts his grip so that Hermann's not in danger of pulling them back down again. "Okay," he says, "let's go."

Progress is slow; Hermann's not fit to walk rapidly, and Newt matches the pace to what he can manage. "We should...we should go to medical," Hermann murmurs, the sound muffled by the drop of his head.

"Mhm," Newt hums, oddly agreeable.

They don't talk again—the exhaustion, Hermann thinks, is a large part.

Medical is bright; the light makes his eyes ache, and the left one itches hellishly, suddenly. Newt hovers at the side of Hermann's bed before the doctor forces him into one of his own. Hermann can sense Newt's displeasure—the Drift, or simply familiarity, he doesn't know.

The barrage of tests that follow makes his already aching head spin. "I just want painkillers," he snaps, finally, batting away one of the nurse's hands. "And—"

"Yes, Doctor Gottlieb, we're attending to him," comes the weary response. Hermann wonders if his own worry is truly that apparent. "Actually," continues the nurse, flipping through the pages on her clipboard, "surprisingly, he's doing better than you are—he'll be released tonight, under strict orders to not overexert himself. You'll have to stay, however."

"But—" Hermann tries to protest before what feels like a sledgehammer slams behind his left eye; hisses, doubles over, panting, one hand gripping the coarse sheets in a white-knuckled grip, the other pressed against his eye.

The nurse lets out a sympathetic hum. "It's alright, Doctor Gottlieb, you'll be on your feet and arguing with Doctor Geiszler before you know it, I promise."

Hermann grits his teeth.

* * *

Mako visits him the next day. She looks weary—carries herself as close to uncertainty as Hermann thinks is possible. When she speaks, though, her voice doesn't waver. "How are you, Doctor Gottlieb?"

He offers a thin smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Not well enough to leave, apparently," he returns. "Though they let _Newton_ leave already."

Something like a smile flickers on her face for a moment.

Hermann feels, suddenly, horrifically awkward; what can he say? After all, it's because of the information he and Newton found out that the Marshal died. Mako, ever-observant, parses his thoughts before he can even begin to formulate them. "He died as he lived," she says, softly, "for a cause he believed in. None of us are to blame for that."

There's a lump in Hermann's throat, still. "He died a hero," he says, shakily.

Mako nods.

She remains for a bit longer, telling him, quietly, of what happened; when she describes the fear and pain in the moments she'd thought Raleigh had died, and then the shock of relief afterwards, Hermann thinks, _oh_.

It shows on his face, apparently, because she pats his arm, gives him a knowing look.

* * *

"Has Doctor Geiszler come in while I've been asleep?" he asks the doctor hopefully.

She shakes her head. "No—he hasn't been in since the day he brought you here."

"Oh," says Hermann, trying to hide his disappointment. "Well, it must be his dislike for clinical settings."

The doctor shakes her head. "No, he's busy with something."

"Oh," says Hermann, again, more softly; sadly; wonders why it hurts so much. "Not even once?"

Another shake of her head. "I can tell him you requested him, if you'd like?"

"No, thank you," he replies, turns his head so that she can't see the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.

Later, he texts Newt.

There's no reply.

* * *

It's not until later—months later—that he learns what has happened. _MIT asked me to come back,_ Newt's email reads, _like, they were psyched at the thought. But the next semester was starting like three days later—education stops for no one, not even the apocalypse—so I had to get there as soon as I could._

 _Sorry I didn't get to tell you,_ he placates, _I meant to, I really did, but life—well, you know how it is._

Hermann would like to be able to summon up anger; to call the other and yell at him, demand an explanation— _I thought this would change things!_ —but all that's there is an ache, like that from being out in the frigid cold for two long; so cold it almost starts to feel warm despite all reasoning to the contrary.

He changes the caller ID from _Newt_ to _Doctor Newton Geiszler_.

Newt doesn't call.

* * *

"You heard anything about Dr. Geiszler recently?" asks one of the interns, fiddling idly with a pen as he waits for the program to load up. Hermann, scalpel poised above the sample of kaiju liver, freezes.

"No, why?" he asks; measured. Wonders if the tremble of his words is only apparent to him.

The intern—Kevin—shrugs. "Just wondering," he says, "since you guys were close. I figured you might know something about his whole kaiju-cloning thing—"

Hermann drops the scalpel with a clatter. "His _what?_ " he demands, can feel his face drain of blood; suspects, by the way Kevin pauses, eyes wide, that he's reacting _badly_ , but—

But. "I have to go," he says, abruptly, peels off the nitrile gloves and grabs his cane. Kevin might say something to that—he doesn't know. Reality feels dull, whited out.

His mind is roiling—terror, anger and a thousand others thrown together in a chaotic mix; is _this_ what Newton abandoned him for? His _kaiju?_

A quick search reveals the next flight to Boston departs in forty-five minutes.

* * *

"What are you in Boston for?" asks the taxi driver.

Hermann's first instinct is to snap; instead, he says, "I'm here to visit my former lab partner. He may be making some bad decisions. I wish to help." He watches the trees streak by.

"That is…I don't wish to help with the bad decisions," Hermann clarifies, "I...I don't know if I can do anything," he confesses, and then, "this is quite odd, you know; I don't usually give out details of my life to strangers."

The driver laughs. "Yeah, you don't seem like the type," she agrees. "Good luck with him, though—I hope you guys manage to work it out."

"As do I," Hermann murmurs, "as do I."

* * *

He doesn't bother knocking. The door bangs open, followed by a, "Hey, gimme a min, I'm a bit busy—"

"Newton _Geiszler_ ," Hermann hisses, "I cannot _believe_ —"

" _Hermann—?_ " Newt whirls around; safety goggles over his glasses, mouth comically wide. "You didn't—"

" _Call?_ " Hermann laughs, derisive.

Newt pulls off the goggles. "Uh," he says, "yeah. Look, man, I'd love to catch up or whatever, but I'm a bit busy right now—"

"With your _kaiju?_ Which you _never said anything about in your emails?_ " Hermann snaps, and Newt's expression morphs from surprise to irritation.

"If you start lecturing me, Hermann, I _swear—_ "

" _No!_ " Hermann shouts, trembling, now, with anger. "Don't you _dare!_ Do you know how many nights I lay awake, wondering why you practically abandoned me, Newton? And then—then—" he drags in a breath, stalks forward until he's practically towering over the other. "I find out it was for _kaiju_ . Of course—are you even capable of caring for anything— _anyone—_ besides yourself and your kaiju? _Can you?_ " He jabs the other's chest with his index finger, teeth bared. "Is it your _intention_ to bring about the second apocalypse, or are you truly that blind to your own folly?"

Newt stares at him, wide-eyed, wordless, and Hermann deflates, suddenly; backs away. "Goodbye," he says, the fight drained out of him, and walks out.

* * *

"Hermann! Wait!" Newt calls, and Hermann turns.

The other's practically sprinting after him, hair in a disarray. "Wait!" he calls again.

Hermann debates not doing so; debates turning back and walking away; leaving Newt. But—

He doesn't. He stops, waits for the other to catch up to him.

"Hermann," Newt pants, doubling over. Finally, he catches his breath. "I—I didn't mean—I wasn't—" he stops, starts again. "I wasn't thinking," he says, and it sounds miserable. "I just—I was offered a position, and then I got pulled into possible experiments with kaiju cells, and _cloning_ kaiju, and I—I wasn't thinking."

"No," Hermann agrees, "you weren't." There's still an edge of anger, but mostly, he's just— _weary_.

Newt pauses, bites his lip, and then says, "I...I didn't mean to hurt you, Hermann."

"You still did."

"I know. I'm sorry," Newt says, casts his gaze downward. "I don't...I don't expect you to forgive me, just...I want to let you know I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean to hurt you, or make you feel like what we had wasn't important, I just—I got caught up in my head." Hermann opens his mouth to speak, and Newt holds up a hand. "I—I'm not saying that as an excuse, I swear. And I _am_ sorry, Hermann."

They lapse into silence for a moment, before Hermann says, "Thank you."

Newt nods. "It's the least I can do. That was an asshole move of me to pull, and...I'm sorry." He gives Hermann a hesitant look before he adds, "I missed you."

"...I missed you as well," Hermann replies, after a moment, and nearly falls over when Newt drags him into an embrace.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Newt says, barely loud enough to hear, and grips him tightly. Hermann grips back just as tightly after he gets over his surprise.

"Perhaps...perhaps you'd like to talk about this more at length?" he suggests, when they break apart. There're tear-tracks dried on Newt's cheeks, as well as, he suspects, his own.

Newt gives a tiny nod. "Yeah, you're right," he says. "Um—do you wanna pop downtown for a bite to eat? It's kinda late—you're probably hungry. I'll pay," he adds.

Hermann contemplates the offer for a moment. "I...yes," he says. "That would...that would be nice."

* * *

The place Newt takes him to is a deli. Newt wolfs down his sandwich; Hermann takes measured bites of his own Reuben.

"You can't do it," Hermann says; doesn't specify _what_ . "Newton, you _cannot_ —it's such a monumentally _idiotic_ idea, nevermind the _dangers_ —"

"I know," Newt interrupts. "I...I know. I just—no one here tells me _no_ , you know? Like, I say something, and they're like _oh Newt how can we help you_ instead of _are you crazy!?_ And," he sighs. "I'm not good with that, Hermann. I didn't—I didn't stop to think."

"I didn't know," Hermann says, uselessly.

Newt gives him a thin smile. "I didn't expect you to," he says.

They sit there, silent, again, before Newt says, abruptly, "The truth is...the truth is I can't do this, Hermann. I can't—I can't stay in academia. It's driving me crazy, dude."

"Alright," says Hermann. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"I..." Newt pauses. "I need...I need _you_. You're the only one who gets me, Herms, the only one willing to call me on my bullshit. I just...I want to go back. I want to work with you again." He sounds, Hermann thinks, terribly, terribly tired.

He licks his lips. "I can't guarantee that our relationship will go back to being the same as it was," he warns. "We know each other too intimately for that—there's too much history between us to pretend otherwise."

Newt closes his eyes. When he opens them, there's a new alertness there. "I know," he says, "but I...I want to try. Even if it doesn't work—even if it's awful sometimes...I _want_ to, Hermann. I'm sorry I ever made you doubt that."

They lapse back into silence, Newt fidgetting, fingers tapping away at the table, and he avoids Hermann's gaze.

When Hermann finally finishes, he rises, moves to throw away his napkin, and Newt slumps—dejected, Hermann realises.

He walks back, offers his hand. "We ought to go if we're going to catch our flight back," he says, simply.

Newt's head snaps up. "You got a ticket for me?" he asks, surprise colouring his tone.

"Well, I had...I had hoped that I would be able to convince you to return with me," Hermann admits. "However, I see that was...a bit presumptuous of me." He begins to drop his hand.

Newt practically leaps out of his seat and grabs it. "Are you kidding me?" he laughs, "c'mon, Herms, let's catch this plane." He interlocks their fingers and squeezes Hermann's hand.

Hermann's heart leaps. "Yes, we should," he agrees, shakily, for one, not out of anger or exhaustion, and when Newt grins at him, bright and almost carefree, he finds that it's infectious.


	77. 77

**error - unable to predict results**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "Newt has always been the one thing Hermann can never predict."

* * *

"Not _everything_ is about you, you know!" Hermann shouts at the man across from him. His cane hits the ground hard, echoes in the hallway, and Newt's practically running to keep up with him.

The words come out biting—more than he'd intended, make Newt's expression flip from downtrodden to indignant, then snarling right back at him, "I don't think that, Hermann, you _know_ that, but I'm right!"

"No you're not!" Hermann hisses back. "You'll get yourself _killed!_ Why can't it be someone else? Why not—?"

"Because this is _my work! This is what I've dreamed of doing for years,_ Hermann!" Newt throws up his hands, face flushed. "Fuck you for discrediting my work in front of Pentecost—I thought we were _friends,_ Hermann, but then—then you go and do _that—!_ "

" _We're not friends!_ " Hermann barks, "we are nothing more than _colleagues,_ a fact that seems to consistently elude you, _Doctor Geiszler._ "

Newt rocks back on his feet as if hit by some invisible force, expression going blank. For a second, Hermann pauses as well—did something happen? Is he alright?—before he turns and walks away, leaving Newton behind him.

It hurts a bit a _lot_ but it'll hurt less if he can stop himself from caring now than if he tries to do so later. What he did was for Newt's own good, he tries to convince himself. He'd get himself _killed._

* * *

Except.

* * *

It doesn't work.

It doesn't work, and Hermann still finds Newton seizing on the floor, falls to the ground, exclaims, "Newton!", the name cracking almost before he manages to speak it, one hand cupping Newt's cheek, the other scrabbling to undo the contraption. "Newt!"

And then Newt lurches forward, his hands grasping at the front of Hermann's jacket, his arms, his shoulders, fingers gripping tightly, painfully, but that means Newt's _alive,_ and for now that's _enough._

So Hermann helps him to a chair, gets him a cup of water in the only clean cup in the lab, and practically sprints to LOCCENT.

And then Pentecost looks at Newton and says, "I need you to do that again," and hands him a piece of paper, tells him to find _Hannibal Chau_ and tells him _do not trust him_ , and Hermann is biting the inside of his cheek until it bleeds because he's going to _do it again_.

"You're going to kill yourself," he says, the words falling out almost before he's even realised that he's talking.

Newt grins at him, eye bloodshot, the words hitching, says, "I'm a fucking _rockstar,_ dude, i'll be _fine,_ " and it's less of a reassurance and more of a statement of defiance, a dare for Hermann to contradict him.

He doesn't, and then Newt's off, still unstable as he walks, and that's when it sinks in, truly, that _this_ is happening again, that Newt is going to—

Hermann swallows, makes his way over to the chalkboards, picks up a piece of chalk, and stares at the numbers there without really seeing them, because—

He knows the odds, knows them intimately; the odds of surviving one Drift with a kaiju brain: astronomical. The odds that Newt will survive a second are not even worth entertaining.

* * *

Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhon are both taken out; Otachi makes landfall; Hermann is numb to it all.

And then—"Go," Pentecost orders, the instant they know that Newt is alive, know where he is, doesn't specify, because there's no _need_ to, not with the way Hermann's been gripping the head of his cane, worrying his lip raw, and Hermann has never been this happy to obey a command.

"Hermann?" Newt shouts, the wind whipping through his hair, "what are you doing here?" The _I thought you didn't care_ goes unsaid.

"I'm here to help you," Hermann replies.

Newt laughs at that, full-throated, throws his head back. "I thought it wasn't about me," he manages.

"No, this is about you and if you will not value your own life, apparently I must do it for you," Hermann snaps, and returns to fiddling with the Breach alert tablet, watches as two signals appear, not three.

And then Newt puts on a pons headset without offering one to Hermann, and he realises he didn't _understand._ So he draws in a breath and says, "I'll go with you."

* * *

"I care too," is the first proper sentence Newt says to him after, his arm slung across Hermann's shoulders, grinning like a lunatic, a fact that Hermann knows not because he's looking at the other, or because of the Drift, but because his face is pressed into the crook of Hermann's neck, and he can feel the stretch of Newt's lips against his skin, feel the heat of his breath when he speaks, quiet, so that only Hermann can hear him.

He swallows, intimately aware of the bob of his throat, that the other can probably sense it as well. "I wasn't aware there was something to _be_ mutual about," he says, "I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Sure." Newt goes silent, simply existing, his breaths blossoming across Hermann's skin, raising gooseflesh. "I think you're afraid," he says, finally.

"Of what?" Hermann scoffs, too fast—Newt knows.

"You're used to being able to _predict_ things," he says—states. "You don't know how to predict me. You don't know how to predict us. And that…that scares you."

"I—" his protests die on his lips. "Yes," he admits, at length, because it's true. Of course it is; he's made his living on predicting things, and for all his genius, Newt has always been the one thing that defies his ability to do what he does; to predict him, Hermann thinks, is possibly one of the few things that exceeds his capacity.

Newt lifts his head, stares Hermann right in the eyes, grin wide, wild, teeth bared. "Good," he says, "because I'm fucking terrified too. But you…you're worth it, I think."

There's a lump in Hermann's throat, and when he speaks again, his voice is choked. "The—the sentiment is…mutual."

Even just the act of speaking it aloud seems to relieve some of the tension that's built up, and this time, when Newt squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, grins as well.


	78. 78

**unexpected** **discoveries**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "Hermann Gottlieb giggles, apparently, a fact that neither Amara nor Newt is going to let go."

* * *

"This was a bad idea," Newt mutters, Hermann's arm slung over his shoulder, barely managing to keep the both of them upright; Hermann's grip on his cane tenuous at best as he leans into Newt's side fully, eyes half-lidded, a dopey smile on his face.

Amara shakes her head; mock-disgust. "You should've thought of that before you went out, maybe? And here I thought you were a genius."

Newt scowls at her, slightly cross-eyed, and hisses, "I _am!_ "

She flashes him an indulgent smile. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Doc. Oh—" She means to warn him, but it's too late; Hermann's already tripping, dragging the shorter man down with him to the ground with a startled huff.

For a second, she thinks he's going to start yelling at Newt about being clumsy, but then—

He giggles.

It's almost a hiccough, but then he does it again and Amara realises, a delighted grin spreading across her face, that _Hermann Gottlieb just giggled_. Holy _shit._

"Holy _shit,_ " she says, out loud, "Doc, do you have a—? Oh man, I _have to_ record this, I'm never—"

"Don't you _dare,_ " Hermann hisses from the floor, untangles himself, partway, from Newt, and then when Newt reaches for his pocket, slaps his wrist. "I'm going to _kill_ you, Newton, I will—I will _murder_ you, you'll join Vanessa in the grave—"

Newt ignores his protests; tosses her the phone; says, slowly, as if speaking to a small child, to Hermann, "Babe, I saw Vanessa in the elevator last week."

Hermann sputters while Amara turns the phone on, deftly typing in the passcode—"Hey! That's—!""The day of your wedding, Doc, easy, you're _such_ a closet romantic,"—and then says, to Newt, "Make him do it again."

"No," Hermann says, warningly, tries to pull himself up; unsuccessfully, in part, because Newt drags him back down again, a spark of mischief in his eyes, "Newton _Geiszler_ , don't you dare—!"

But it's too late; Newt's hooked his fingers beneath Hermann's ribs, lightly, and Amara's got the camera on, recording as the physicist rolls around on the ground, giggling helplessly as Newt tickles him.

"I h—hate—I—," he gasps, unable to properly string together a sentence through his laughter; the glare he tries to level at them lacking intensity due to the combined factors of being plastered—he's actually surprisingly put-together, given the amount he drank—and Newt's relentless assault.

Finally, though, Newt falls back, lets the other slide to the ground, panting. "I detest you with every fibre of my being," Hermann grunts, once he can finally breathe. "You as well, Cadet Namani."

"Oh cheer up, you grump," Newt shoots back. "'mara, pass me the phone."

For a moment, she debates not doing so; he knows what she's thinking, she can tell, and he wags a warning finger at her. " _Phone,_ please."

"Oh, _fine,_ " she huffs, "but if you never use it…"

"What do you take me for, _Hermann?_ " he scoffs. "Nah, man, this is prime blackmail material, thanks. C'mon, let's get you to bed." The last bit's directed at Hermann, who glares, alternatingly, dourly, at the two of them as Newt helps him up. "Oh, c'mon," Newt laughs, "it's not like you haven't done anything similar to me before."

"Yes, but—" he flounders, scowls. "It's not _comparable._ "

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Newt replies, indulgently. "Good night, Amara."

"Goodnight, Doc, goodnight Doctor G," she returns, and watches as they make their way down the hallway towards their rooms, and, without meaning to, finds a small smile tugging at her own lips.

* * *

Hermann's first words to Newt the next morning are, "I need a cup of tea, _now,_ " followed by, once he's no longer blinking dazedly at the wall, "I detest you. You're a pest. Why did I ever agree to this—this—"

"Marriage," Newt offers cheerily, and refills the teacup, a thin wisp of steam curling up off of the surface.

The other scowls at him, but doesn't refute it. "You're a pest," he says, again, instead.

"But a cute one."

"…that depends on what one defines as 'attractive'," Hermann says, after a pause, and sighs. "Which, apparently, in my case, includes _you._ "

Newt laughs. "Oh, come on, I'm not _that bad,_ am I?"

"You really _are._ "

"Well, for the record, I think you're cute too," Newt teases, "I dreamed that one day I'd be whisked away by a knight in shinning armour, but I think I prefer my knight in shinning wool and chalk dust better."

" _Newton,_ " Hermann scolds, but there's no heat in it, not with the way that a faint blush has rissen on his cheeks, the corners of his eyes crinkling despite his attempts not to smile.

Newt grins. "Hey, man, it's mutual. I think we've both wanted to bang—"

" _Newton!_ " Hermann hisses, going scarlet. "I—you—"

"Sex is a perfectly natural—"

"No. Shut up. I cannot deal with this at this hour in the morning, I _cannot,_ " Hermann interrupts.

"Make me."

"Oh, you—"


	79. 79

**static**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "It seems, perhaps, that Raleigh is the only one who hasn't changed in the last decade."

* * *

The shatterdome is new; that, of course, is to be expected; the last one that stood here was blown to smithereens less than a year and a half ago, but still, to be walking through halls with clean, white walls and the distinct lack of water running beneath concrete bellow his feet is disconcerting.

"It's too…nice."

Mako offers a wry smile. "It's good to see you again," she says, the tone weary, one eye hidden behind an understated eyepatch, the hair going silver at the roots, and Raleigh thinks, _I wonder how long ago she stopped dying it blue_. He doesn't voice it; doesn't, perhaps, think that it's his right to know.

He did run away, in the end, for a decade.

"What happened?" he asks, instead, because he knows what they're saying, but he's never trusted the news, or the PPDC. "All I know is that there was an attempt at reopening a Breach to the Anteverse. You're okay, right?"

He hesitates there, wonders if he should add more; should apologise. Mako speaks before he can. "I'm as well as could be expected, given that I survived a helicopter crash."

That draws a bark of laughter from him; sudden, unexpected. His teeth snap shut with a _click_ the moment he realises it. "And the others who were injured? What _really_ happened, Mako?"

"They…" she pauses. "Most of them have recovered, but…"

"What is it?" he prompts.

"Doctor Geiszler…Newt—he—" her voice is trembling, almost, and she swallows. "It was—he didn't do it willingly, but he's…he's fragile, Raleigh, and…"

"It hurts," he finishes, moves to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, tentative. "I…I'm sorry. I know you were very close to him." It feels inadequate—what, exactly, can he say to her? How can he understand what she's going through, understand the pain from the abrupt severing of a bond, and then, now, to have to try and reconcile the image she's had of him with reality…

"I'm sure he'll be fine, in the end," he comforts, knows that it sounds hollow. "He did manage to hang on for ten years, and he's got Gottlieb by his side, yeah?"

"Yeah," she nods, blinks rapidly for a moment. "I…it's good to see you."

"Me too," he replies, the _I miss you still, somehow_ unspoken, thinks they both know it, somehow. "But I—I'm here now, if you…if you need me. If you _want_ me here."

A brief nod of her head, one he almost misses, is the only reply. It's enough.

* * *

The word around the 'dome is that Doctor Newton Geiszler of the many PhDs is _different_.

Raleigh privately considers that statement with amusement; if they're only just realising now that a man who got himself covered in tattoos of Earth's enemies and hooked his brain up with a kaiju, twice, is _odd_ , then one has to wonder how effective they are, really.

Pointed silences, though, tell much of the story when he does get around to asking Tendo about it; the files he can find are covered in [REDACTED], more so than any other he's seen.

It's then that he considers, perhaps, that the word shouldn't be _different_ but changed; the weight of an alien hive-mind has taken it's toll.

But in the end, the truth is this: Raleigh first realises how the last ten years have changed Dr. Geiszler when he gives Raleigh a nervous smile and calls him by his name.

Gottlieb, by his side, eyes him up warily when they bump into each other in the hallway; shoulders tense, fingers gripping the head of his cane; warning; his eyes track Raleigh's every move.

"H—hey," stammers Geiszler, swallows. For a moment, Raleigh wonders if he doesn't recognise him. "Sorry for, uh, bumping into you. My bad. I—" he glances to the phycist by his side. "It's—the PPDC is glad to have you back."

The speech patterns are odd; off, just slightly; his voice, still high and scratchy, lacks a certain _bounce_ , awkwardly fitting in words like he doesn't quite know where they go.

Gottlieb, by his side, feels reminiscent of a feral animal, held back, barely, ready to leap at him at the slightest hint that he's making Geiszler uncomfortable. He offers a twisted smile. "I'm glad to be back. I'm glad to…" he pauses. "Mako needs all the help she can get," he says, instead, realises how that comes across— _needs all the help she can get because of what you did_.

That, then, lingers between them; he's not used to trying to curb his words—a decade spent as far from humanity and from those he worked with hardly aiding his skills in doing so.

He expects Geiszler to go off on him, to snap something biting, eyes flashing with a glint of the blood roaring through his veins, ready for a fight—Raleigh has seen that before, from him—but it never comes.

Instead, he licks his lips, quick, and shrinks back, slightly, presses himself to Gottlieb's side. "I think she—she's glad to have you back," he offers, quietly.

And then they're off, Geiszler's hand on his arm, shadows practically one with how close they're standing, leaving Raleigh behind to wonder if, perhaps, he's the only one who's remained the same; stuck, like a bug in amber, the anachronous anomaly; static where those around him have shifted.


	80. 80

**ignite (ultra-bright)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** ""You're _disgusting_ ," Hermann manages, mildly peeved that the cup, being cardboard, didn't shatter as it hit the ground. "I see you're just as _delightful_ as I remember."

Newt hums and hops across the Line of Demarcation—not that he'll admit that he thinks of it as that, especially not to Newton—and pulls out a piece of kaiju…something. Hermann grimaces and, when the _thing_ makes a revolting squishing noise, spraying [neutralised, thank god] kaiju blue on his papers, decides that he hates Newton Geiszler with a burning passion.

Newton laughs. "There's a fine line between love and hate, dude," he shoots back."

* * *

"Hello," says Newt, beaming at him, and Hermann—

Hermann wishes he could say his heart skips a beat, or that the sight of the other leaves him breathless, but it doesn't. (He wishes it did, though; it might at least partially have to do with the romance novels he was prone to spending hours reading in the tiny library near his hometown in Bavaria, age seven, a brief respite from Lars' demands.)

Newton's hand is sticking out, the tattoos that disappear beneath the sleeves of his too-tight button-up garishly bright; jarring. Hermann scowls and pointedly doesn't take it; watches as the grin slips off his face. "Newton," he says, stiffly, and then, "you're…not what I expected."

"What, as if _I'm_ any more pleased?" snaps the biologist, and shoves his hand into his pocket. "Now are you going to sit down and order something or are you just gonna stand there glaring at me like a dick?"

" _You're_ a dick," Hermann mutters, and reluctantly pulls out a chair, and then, to the waiter, "one coffee, and a cup of tea, please."

"Fuck you. I can order for myself."

Hermann hums. "Make that _decaf_ ," he corrects, and smiles sweetly at the biologist.

Needless to say, they don't like each other.

* * *

"So," asks Newton, three years later, the lighting making him look a bit sick and clammy; tattoos peaking out from beneath his collar, "you still take your coffee black?"

"I don't _drink_ coffee, Geiszler," Hermann mutters querulously, and scratches the chalk across the board just hard enough to screech hair-raisingly.

Newton scowls at him. "Fuck you too, Herms," he bites, and ducks out of the lab, down the hallway. Twenty minutes later, he's back, cup in hand. "I got you tea."

"You…remembered," Hermann states, masking his surprise—badly—and sets down his chalk, takes the cup, and drags in a mouthful—

And promptly chokes, sputters, and throws the cup at the wall. Newt grins at him. "Sugar," he says, gleefully, "payback for '17."

"You're _disgusting,_ " Hermann manages, mildly peeved that the cup, being cardboard, didn't shatter as it hit the ground. "I see you're just as _delightful_ as I remember."

Newt hums and hops across the Line of Demarcation—not that he'll admit that he thinks of it as that, especially not to Newton—and pulls out a piece of kaiju…something. Hermann grimaces and, when the _thing_ makes a revolting squishing noise, spraying [neutralised, thank god] kaiju blue on his papers, decides that he hates Newton Geiszler with a burning passion.

Newton laughs. "There's a fine line between love and hate, dude," he shoots back.

"Oh, yes, because _you'd_ know," Hermann shoots back, bitingly, and doesn't take notice that there's a heavy silence before the other turns his radio on full volume.

(Eventually, Hermann cleans the patch of floor where the tea's dried.

The cup says "for my favourite asshole."

Hermann wonders, briefly, if stress from existing in the same space as Newton Geiszler will kill him before the kaiju have a chance to do so.)

* * *

So they fall in to it, in the end.

Before the Drift, actually, surprisingly.

It goes something like this:

"I think we should date," Newt says, spins nauseatingly in the office chair, eyes crossed, and has to grip the arms when Hermann sticks out his cane and brings it to a shuddering halt.

He scowls at the biologist. "We hate each other," he points out, "that's a terrible idea."

"There's a fine line between love and hate," Newt repeats; tips his head back to stare Hermann in the eye.

"Hmm," says Hermann. "That's a lousy reason."

"Plus I think you're hot," Newt adds, and then, when Hermann's scowl widens, "I mean, like, come _on_ , dude, I was already in love with your brain—is it really _that_ hard to believe? C'mon, Herms, we've got, what—five months? Live a little!"

Hermann purses his lips; unhooks his cane; watches as Newt spins in the opposite direction just as dizzyingly rapidly; finds himself considering the other's words. "You don't, though," he points out. "Love me, that is."

Newt hums. "Give it a few years," he says.

[Hermann doesn't say anything after that. Neither of them do, really.

He does hope, though—he wants that time. He wants a few years.

He thinks, perhaps, he might not mind loving Newton Geiszler.]

* * *

His nose is bleeding; again; the scent of it heavy on his senses—sticky and warm. He scowls; reflection in the mirror scowling back at him; closes his eyes and splashes water on his face. Remembers, in a flash, the bright, bright, _bright_ red sun and the planet blocking light in one spot, like a blight upon an otherwise unblemished field of poppies—

"You're bleeding again, aren't you?" calls Newt from the main room.

Hermann's scowl grows; doesn't, particularly, appreciate Newt does _this._ "No," he snaps; watches the water run salmon-pink and then rose; sighs. "Fine. Yes."

There's a beat—Hermann watches the water, watches it change from rose to clear; then, the door creaks open further; Newt's hand on his shoulder. "They're not going to stop," he says; quiet; matter of fact.

 _The memories or the blood?_ he almost asks, but, well; he knows Newt means _both._

He closes his eyes and breathes; lets the feel of Newt's hand settle. "I…" he trails off.

The silence mounts—builds, like tension, and then, thick enough that one can almost cut it with a knife. "I don't like it either," Newt says, softly. "And—"

"Don't say _it,_ " Hermann cuts in, and then, "…sorry."

"I'm _not_ going to say it," Newt snaps.

(His grip on Hermann's arm is still gentle.)(It's nice, almost.)

Then, predictably, he ruins it by adding, "Nah, dude, _you're_ going to say it."

Hermann shrugs his arm off and shuts the tap off. "I hate you," he murmurs, without heart, because it's true.

* * *

There are things that Hermann does not know about Newt—his innermost thoughts, why, exactly, he insists on sitting in chairs without his feet touching the ground; why he's so _Newton._

Hermann knows the difference between genuine distress and Newton trying to convey that he is the saddest most woebegone creature in existence, tragically unloved and desperately in need of cuddles.

Currently, he's on the second, staring at Hermann balefully.

"Oh, alright," he sighs, "come over here."

Newt happily obliges, curls up against Hermann's side, sighs. "I like you," he murmurs, lets out another, nearly imperceptible, sigh when Hermann presses light kisses to the crown of his head.

"I should hope so," Hermann returns.

Newt pokes him in the ribs. "Jerk," he says.

"Mm. I love you too," Hermann says, almost absent-minded, and brushes a fallen strand of hair away from the other's face.


	81. 81

**reflect**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "In the end, it comes down to the fact that Hermann hates that he can't hate him."

* * *

"You should leave," Newt hisses at him, scarlet; the image of it, of Newton's _indignance_ boils his blood; the hand on his arm not comforting, but warning as it grips tight enough to be uncomfortable.

Hermann sets his jaw and glares at Newt. " _No,_ " he says, coldly, "I was invited to this conference as well, _Doctor Geiszler,_ and I will not let you— _bully_ me into leaving because you hate me."

He jerks his arm from the other's grip, ignores the way his eyes widen, something almost—

 _No._

It settles back into annoyance, smoothes over, a second later, into indifference. "Fine," says Newton, "fine." He drops his hand, the other coming up to muss his hair, casts Hermann one last, side-long glance, and pushes past him.

Hermann bites back the instinct to say _something._ Instead, he closes his eyes, draws in a breath, and runs through the contents of his presentation yet again; refuses to acknowledge the shakiness of his hand as it grips the cane, white-knuckled.

The memory of a younger Newton flashes in his mind; crow's feet as he grins, hair wild—the way he lights up when he sees Hermann, then, in that second before Hermann opened his mouth and brought crashing to the ground what was, quite possibly, his deepest and most meaningful relationship to date.

His eyes snap open; followed, moments later, by a sharp exhalation.

People around him are beginning to stare; he can _feel_ their prying gazes; wants to, in turns, shout and rage and recoil from the attention.

He strides down the hall in the opposite direction.

* * *

It doesn't go well.

This time, Hermann's red-faced, shouting at Newton in front of a panel of colleagues—spitting words he'd never otherwise say.

Newton _incenses_ him.

Newton, he realises later, an ocean away from him, in a terrifying moment of clarity, makes his blood race in a way no one else ever has.

Newton _invigorates_ him.

"I'll never see him again," he says to his reflection—wonders if he's trying to convince _himself_ of it more than just making a statement.

( _I want to,_ he doesn't dare voice aloud.)

* * *

They're in Lima when Hermann makes a mistake—sleep deprivation and the looming knowledge that there'll be another attack and he doesn't know _when,_ and—

The klaxon goes off; sends him crashing down from his tenuous perch on the ladder; hits his head on the concrete and sees white.

"—ann? Hermann!"

He tries to move his head, crack his eyes open and see where— _who_ —is shaking his shoulder—

Gasps.

" _Hermann!_ " A hand on his shoulder, now—Newton.

He grasps blindly, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the material of the biologist's shirt.

His head is pounding, exacerbated by the wail of the kaiju-alert siren, and Newton's voice barely manages to pierce through the fog descending on his mind.

"Hermann," Newton says, again, once he finally manages to open his eyes; his gaze frighteningly soft. "Hermann, can you stand? We gotta get you to medical—"

"N—no," Hermann manages, "I'm not leaving. I don't want you to leave either. My work—" he stops, nearly knocked unconscious by a bolt of pain in his leg. "My work—Newton, I'm not—my calculations aren't—"

"I don't _care,_ " Newton snaps. "Hermann, you just _fell—_ "

"This is my _job!_ People might _die,_ Geiszler, do you understand that? _It's not up to me!_ —"

"I. _Don't. Care!_ "

The force of the words stuns Hermann into silence for a moment—not long, but just long enough that Newton scoops him up, inelegant, ignoring Hermann's weak protests.

* * *

The next day, Hermann, still confined to a bed in medical, demands a damage report.

He doesn't speak to Newton for three weeks.

* * *

He understands why Newton did it seven years later when he walks in on him seizing on the floor of the Hong Kong Shatterdome


	82. 82

**trust**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "A mail mess-up, it turns out, is all that's needed for things to snowball."

* * *

Hermann nearly bowls Newton over.

There is, of course, the fact that he's not wearing his glasses, and thus, could not _see_ where he was going, but, regardless, the point is, he nearly bowls Newton over.

"Hey!" Newt exclaims, pinwheels his arms to stay upright. "Careful!"

"Move!" Hermann snaps, and attempts to shove the other aside.

That fails; in part because Hermann flat-out _misses_ , unable to see properly, and also because Newton shifts, blocking him yet again. "What's the hurry, dude? It's not even seven in the morning yet."

"I—" Hermann lets out a puff of an exhale. "The mail-carrier accidentally took a letter that wasn't meant to be mailed," he admits grudgingly. "I must've put it in the wrong pile, but, well—I really _must_ get it back, it's of a rather _sensitive_ nature—"

Newton places a hand on his arm. "Hey, hey, hey," he says, "it'll be fine. You can go back to your place, put on your glasses, and go get it, okay?"

" _No,_ " Hermann snaps. "It's rather time-sensitive—the envelope is a same-day delivery one, and it wasn't _ready—_ " he cuts himself off with an irritated sigh and bats Newt's hands, hovering between them, away from himself.

Newt draws back, expression flickering to annoyance. "What, exactly, is it? You _never_ leave letters unfinished, dude."

"None of _your_ business," Hermann snaps, hoping the heat in his cheeks is imagined.

The other's eyes flick over his face, and a grin tugs at his lips. "Is it _that_ kind of letter?" he questions, and makes an obscene motion.

"Wh—I—no!" he sputters, "I—you—!" Unable to string words together, he resorts, simply, to knocking his cane against the biologist's knees.

It doesn't have the intended effect; the other's eyes widen, as does his grin. "No—wait, it _is_ , isn't it? Holy _shit,_ Hermann, I was joking, but you—you really _did_ write a sex letter, didn't you?"

"I did not!" Hermann protests. "I did _no such thing!_ "

"A _weird_ sex letter, then," Newton continues, blithely, and ignores his glare.

"I—" Hermann throws up his hands; arguing, now, is useless; Newton, ever incorrigible, will not be convinced otherwise. He checks his watch, then, crossly informs the other, "I'm not going to be able to retrieve it now."

Newton shrugs. "Whatever, man, it's _his_ weird sex letter now."

"It's not—oh, blast this," Hermann snaps, turns on his heel, and marches back to his quarters.

* * *

"Dude, you're not focusing on your work."

Newton's hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his thoughts; gaze focusing back on the board in front of him, instead of into the distance, and Hermann bristles, embarassed at being caught; turns to face the other, scowling. "No thanks to _you,_ " he bites out.

Newton raises a brow. "Dude, we both know that's bullshit. You've been skittish since yesterday. Look, if it's about the letter—"

Hermann exhales more sharply than intended. "Do _not,_ " he spits, "presume to know what I am upset about."

Newton pulls his hand away, expression morphing to triumphance. "So you _are_ upset!" he exclaims. "Anyway, look, dude, if it makes you feel any better, I went and got your letter back for you—pretty interesting, by the way—"

" _Newton!_ " Hermann hisses, going stiff, "this is not—you—how _dare_ you—that was _private—!_ " His vision is blurring—tears, he realises, pricking hotly at his eyes, and—

"—Hermann?"

The sound of the other's voice is enough to jolt him out of his frozen position; grabbing his cane, he whirls around, marches towards the door; barely aware that he's even moving.

The door to his quarters slams behind him, and he collapses to the ground, back to the cold metal; drags a trembling hand across his face, sleeve coming away wet with tears.

There's a knock on his door a few seconds later. "Hermann?"

"Go _away,_ " he manages, hoarsely. "I don't wish to speak with you, Newton."

"Herman, just let me—"

" _No!_ "

The force of the word startles him; it's almost a shout; sounds raw with pain.

There's a moment of silence, then—

"Alright," Newt says, quietly. "Just—I'll leave the letter here. I'm sorry, okay? I though I'd—" he cuts himself off. "Nevermind," he sighs. "I'm sorry, Hermann."

Hermann doesn't reply.

A second later, there's the sound of footsteps retreating.

* * *

When Hermann finally stops trembling, he drags himself to his feet; then, to the tiny en suit bathroom; splashes water on his face, movements almost sluggish.

Newton's actions feel like a betrayal; he'd thought, perhaps, that they were close enough for the biologist to know how important his privacy is to him, but—

Well, that's the issue, isn't it? Hermann gets his hopes up, and then—

Still, though, he'd though Newton had more respect for him than _that._

He blinks; realises he's been standing there, staring at his own reflection, for who knows how long. "Get yourself together," he murmurs, "it isn't the end of the world anymore."

He steps away from the basin; makes his way back to the door.

If nothing else, at least he can shred the letter.

When he opens the door, though, the sight that greets him is unexpected.

The letter sits there, on the floor—unopened.

He picks it up with trembling hands, turns it over. Nowhere is there any sign of it having been opened.

The envelope slips from his suddenly slack grip; falls to the ground.

When he enters the lab later, Newton is sitting quietly on his own side. Hermann swallows; nervously tightens his grip on the envelope.

"Newton," he calls, softly. "I'd—I'd like to speak with you for a moment, please."

Newt turns around; blinks at him slowly. "I—yeah, sure," he says. The words sound drained. Hermann frowns.

"I'd like to—to apologise," he starts, "for—for earlier—"

"I'm sorry, alright—?"

Hermann raises a hand. "Allow me to continue," he interrupts.

Newt closes his mouth.

"Thank you. As I was saying, I'd like to apologise for my overreaction earlier. I assumed—wrongfully," he pauses, clears his throat. "I assumed the worst of you. I'm sorry for that. I now see that you were only trying to return the letter to me, and had not, as I had thought, opened it." He stops, unsure of how to continue.

Newt gives a startled laugh. "Dude, no—I'd never—when I said that it was 'pretty interesting', you didn't let me finish. I was going to say that you'd forgotten to put an address on it."

"…oh." Hermann ducks his head. "Yes, well. Like I said, I wasn't done with it yet. But I am now."

"Great," Newt replies. "Um. You can give it to whoever it was meant for, then, I guess."

Hermann draws in a breath. "Yes. I can."

Newton nods. "Okay, then."

Throwing caution to the wind, Hermann strides over the yellow tape, sidestepping the kaiju viscera on the floor, and makes his way to Newton's side, and offers the letter.

The biologist stares at him blankly. "Hermann, what are you—?"

"For you," Hermann says, in a rush; licks his lips nervously. "I—I've been meaning to give it to you for some time, but I've always backed down from it at the last moment."

"Hermann..?" Newt asks cautiously, not yet taking the letter.

"Just—take it," Hermann says. "And—" he bites his lip. "Please don't feel…obligated after reading it."

The other finally reaches out; carefully takes the envelope from Hermann, as if afraid he'll startle him if he moves too quickly.

The next few minutes pass silently; Hermann remains still, almost as if held in place by some enchantment, as Newton opens and reads the letter.

Finally, he sets it down.

He doesn't say a word, merely stares at Hermann, eyes wide.

"It's all true," Hermann says. "There. I've said it. Now can you _please_ say something, Newton—?"

"Yes," the other cuts in. "I— _yes,_ Hermann. Um. I mean," he laughs awkwardly. "Me too. Uh. Mutual. Oh, fuck, why can't I just _say_ it—"

Relief crashes over Hermann like a tidalwave, and suddenly, he finds himself grinning.

Just like that, the tension breaks; Newton grins back at him; offers his hand.

Hermann stares at it for a moment, puzzled. "What—?"

"I want to _hold your hand,_ " Newton says, exasperated, but it's tinged with fondness.

"Oh," Hermann says, feeling foolish, and tentatively takes Newt's hand.

The other grins and gives a squeeze. "You're _such_ a dork," he teases.


	83. 83

**leaving a mark**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "When Newt accidentally sprayed himself with gas while hacking away at a piece of kaiju, he didn't expect it would lead to him comforting _Hermann Gottlieb_ , of all people."

* * *

He's seventeen; a degree halfway completed already. The rings beneath his eyes are bruise-black, and at this point, he doesn't bother to hide them; they add, he thinks, at some point, to the aesthetic of it. Once, even, he embellishes them with makeup, makes them comically exaggerated; it drips when they play that night, at some tiny, over-crowded, hot bar that he no longer remembers the name of; stains his shirt.

He's twenty and teaching students the same age as, or older, than himself. The rest of the faculty treats him like an antique vase about to break, and perhaps they're right—and nevertheless—

Newt is many things to many people; but, above all, he strives for _this:_ to leave a mark.

To be remembered.

This, perhaps, is what draws him in when the kaiju attack; Trespasser's movements broadcast 24/7 for the duration it takes the military to take it down. He takes sick-leave for the week; remains glued to the screen, replaying the footage over and over again.

At the end of it, two days without sleep, and four since he's stepped foot outside his apartment, he draws up a draft on his theory that the kaiju is an alien, hits _save_ , and falls asleep on his desk.

Later, he edits it; later, he publishes it; later, even later, the high of discovery and wears off and apprehension and post-high jitteriness sets in; the tension before the damn bursts.

Will it burst?

That, in the end, is the question; is it an isolated incident? An accident?

Or are there more?

Later, still, there is.

And then there is a letter.

It is heavy paper; Newt remembers this, because he himself has never used anything similar; he also remembers it because of the sender, and the words within—words that set into motion what is, in his humble opinion, one of the most passionate greatest correspondences of his life.

 _Hermann Gottlieb_ it reads, in the upper left-hand corner.

* * *

That, of course, has little bearing on his current situation—Newt, currently, is laying on the lab's unusually clean floor, staring up at the ceiling.

The ceiling in question wobbles a few times, as if acknowledging his presence, and he attempts—and, subsequently, fails—a scowl.

No; the reason he's laying here, on the floor of the—shared, now—laboratory is because he went and stabbed a bit of kaiju wrong, and that resulted in a cloud of gas escaping, and _that,_ in turn, resulted in him feeling far too lightheaded to 'stand.

Hence, the floor.

The cane that prods his side is hard enough that he winces; gives a hiss of pain through gritted teeth. "Fuck off," he attempts, the words sounding more like a series of disjointed mumblings.

Hermann prods him again. "You're on _my_ side," he snaps.

Ah.

Well, that would explain the unusual level of cleanliness.

"Great," Newt says, this time clearly enough to _be_ a word. "Herms, man, I will be _sick_ on your grandpa sweater if you try and make me move."

That, at least, gets the other to stop prodding at him, though grudgingly, Newt can tell, even without his—

"Glasses?" Hermann offers, irritably. "I have _no_ idea, Geiszler."

"Fuck you," Newt says. "God. I swear." And he trails off there, uncertain of what—or perhaps, _how_ —to say. Instead, he tries to focus his gaze back onto the ceiling, instead of Hermann's stupid face.

"Should I put us in quarantine?" Hermann asks, for once, helpful. Then, he ruins the gesture by adding, "If you infect _myself_ as well, I promise you, Newton Geiszler, there will be retribution."

"Oh, _really?_ What are you going to do— _bore_ me to death?" Newt mocks. "And no, you don't. It's non-toxic, just…temporarily discom—dis—"

"Discombobulating?" Hermann offers. Newt gives him a lukewarm glare.

Crisis averted, they lapse into silence.

An indeterminate amount of time later, it's pierced by the shrill ring of a cellphone—loud enough to be startling. He closes his eyes and hopes that it passes soon.

It's Hermann's; the tenor of his voice is different, somehow; he's not sure, exactly—can't make out the exact words, but the physicist sounds…upset.

"Bastien, please—"

Hermann's closer now, enough that Newt can make out what the person on the other end is saying—or, rather, _shouting._

"You promised you would be here. There are things happening in my life and I…I can't even trust you with that, can I?" It's delivered in a sharp, bitter tone—and Hermann draws in a halting breath.

"Bastien," he starts, voice trembling, "I can't—there's nothing I can do—"

" _Have you even tried?_ "

The words make Hermann recoil, pain flitting across his face, and Newt realises, suddenly, that whatever this is, it's no petty argument. Hermann looks— _hurt._

The call ends there; Hermann staring blankly at the wall, phone in hand; the person on the other end hung up on him as soon as he finished shouting.

Newt blinks, tries to think of what to say. "Hey, Hermann…?" he tries, tentatively, "um, are you…are you okay?"

Hermann closes his eyes for a second; turns to face him. "Yes," he says, dully.

" _Sure,_ " Newt says, sceptically, and manages to sit up partway. "Yeah, no, not buying it, bud. You look like someone just killed your puppy. C'mon, dude, what is it?"

There's a moment's pause, and then Hermann sighs softly. "I—as you know, I don't have…the best relationship with my family," he says. "My two older siblings moved out as soon as they could, leaving myself to try and protect my brother, Bastien, from my father's displeasure."

He stops, there; there's no need to elaborate; Newt can piece together what he's left unsaid. "Oh, Hermann…" he trails off.

"Do not _pity_ me," Hermann says sharply. "I've done just fine. However, leaving meant that Bastien had no one to—" He stops, jaw clenched. "He's right to be upset at me; I've failed to protect him adequately. We've become…estranged."

"Bull_shit, _" Newt says, so fiercely it surprises him, "whatever happened, Hermann, that's not on you. You were a _kid,_ for crying out loud—it's not your fault."

"I—"

" _No,_ " Newt snaps. "Look, I'm kind of out of it right now, so I'm sorry if this comes across as rude, or whatever, but—Hermann, _it wasn't your fucking job,_ okay? You were a kid. And it sucks that that happened, but from what you're saying, it sounds like you did everything you could. The distance between you two isn't your fault, okay?" He catches Hermann's gaze, and waits.

Finally, the other gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Good," Newt says. "Now, can you help me up, please?"

Hermann scowls at him. "You wouldn't _be_ in this situation if you had simply followed proper containment protocol," he says, snidely, but Newt can see the glimmer of gratefulness in his eyes for the change of subject.

* * *

Later, he thinks that, perhaps, so long as he can help even just one person, he'll have left enough of a mark.


	84. 84

**apologies, apologies (is it too late to say I care?)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "Most of the time, their bickering doesn't amount to much other than a bit of pettiness.

Sometimes, though—sometimes, when they argue, someone steps too far."

* * *

"No," Hermann says, glaring at Newton, and drops the folder on the table, the paper hitting the one clean spot with a _thwap._

Newton raises his gaze from where it's fixed on the kaiju sample he's elbow-deep in; scowls up at Hermann. "Why _not?_ " he demands, "it's a good idea, Hermann, you _know_ it is—"

"A _terrible_ idea," Hermann interrupts, sniffing, "really, Newton, I expected more—"

"Oh, you _expected_ more?" Newt snaps—this is a familiar argument, one they rehash often enough—, the only thing stopping him from gesticulating wildly the quicksand-like consistency of whatever it is he's working on, "you expected _more?_ Well why don't you try doing my job, Hermann, why don't you—"

"Yes, your _job_ —mucking about with bits of kaiju viscera. _So_ important, I'm sure," Hermann says, scornfully.

Newt gapes at him. "…that was uncalled for," he says, eventually. "If you really don't want to, that's—yeah, that's fine, whatever. But you didn't have to go there, alright, Hermann? Just—" he cuts himself off, turns his gaze back to the purple-blue kaiju tissue.

He feels a bit bad for that, in all honesty—it _is_ a bit harsher than normal—but still, Hermann can't resist the next jab; the twist of the knife. "What, have I hit a _nerve?_ " he asks, "it hurts to be wrong, doesn't it—"

" _Shut up!_ " Newt yells, shoulders snapping back, stiff, body tensing. "Don't—do _not_ go there, alright?"

"Well _where else can I?_ " Hermann shoots back. "You left this—this _proposal_ on my desk, Newton, to _Drift_ again, how did you _think_ I was going to respond? Last time you did that, I found you _seizing on the floor,_ Newton—do you _enjoy_ reminding me of that—do you _enjoy_ making me suffer?" The words burst out before he can stop them; more pain in them than he's expecting.

The instant they're out, he regrets them; Newt's expression shutters, eyes sliding out of focus for a second, before he says, coldly, "You don't get to go there."

"Sorry," Hermann murmurs, taking a step back, and swallow. "I—sorry." Then he practically flees back to his chalkboards, the sudden silence following in the wake of his outburst knocking him off-balance for the rest of the day.

* * *

"You're moping," Mako says bluntly when she drops down on the bench next to him the next day, tray in hand. Hermann gives a noncommittal hum and prods listlessly at the day's lunch—some sort of pasta, he thinks, possibly.

She bumps his shoulder with her own. "Trouble in paradise?" she questions, demonstrating that she's just as intuitive as ever.

"I said…something I shouldn't've," he admits, finally; quietly. "We were arguing, and I—I crossed a line."

She nods. "What are you going to do, then, Doctor?"

"I—" He pauses. "What?"

"What are you going to do, Doctor Gottlieb?" she repeats, raising a questioning brow. "In order to rectify the situation?"

He blinks. "I…I hadn't thought about that," he says, slowly. "I thought—well, I thought it best to give Newton his space; I doubt he wants to see me for a while, which is…understandable." Admitting that is hard; he's not terribly fond of admitting his mistakes, ever.

Mako hums; spears a slice of peach. "Something to think over, then," she says, and turns to talk to the J-tech on her other side.

Hermann ponders her words, fork hovering indecisively over his food as he thinks. Finally, he takes a bite, mind slowly setting to work at the problem as he chews.

Just as he's about to get up, Mako turns back to him, says, simply, "He likes cheesecake; there's a few pieces left."

He pauses for a moment, understanding settling in, and then says, softly, "Thank you, Ranger Mori."

She gives him a small, wordless smile, and a nod.

* * *

Hermann walks to Newton's desk, plate in hand, and swallows nervously; resists the urge to bite his lip. Newton doesn't look up, though Hermann knows the other heard him approach.

"I brought you desert," he says, and curses his voice for cracking halfway through. "Cheesecake. If you—if you'd like it."

Newt remains silent; Hermann deflates, any hope he had had rapidly escaping him like air from a balloon. "Alright, then, I'll just leave it here—"

"I'll take it," Newt says, suddenly, without looking at him, and holds out a hand for the plate.

Hermann bites his tongue and passes it over; waits a few minutes before he says, tentatively, "Can we talk about what happened?"

Newt stops eating. "Whatever," he says, tonelessly. "I can't force you to leave, so…"

"Oh," Hermann says, hoping that he doesn't sound as miserable as he feels. "Alright. I'm…I'm sorry. That's all I wanted to say. I'll—get to work, now, then."

"Whatever," Newton says, again, with a shrug, and finishes the last of the cheesecake.

Hermann swallows back the bile rising in his throat.

"For what it's worth, I didn't—I didn't mean what I said," he says, softly.

That gets a reaction. "Do _not_ mock me," Newt hisses, through gritted teeth; finally meets his gaze, eyes flashing.

"Why would I—? Newton, I'm not _mocking_ you!" Hermann exclaims. "Please, believe me when I say that—"

"All you've ever _done_ is mock me!" Newt snaps. "I yell at you and push your buttons and you—you fucking do _this_ —this _bullshit_ apology stuff, and I'm sick of it! You don't mean it—you never have!"

Hermann gapes at him. Newt is red-faced, now, breathing audibly laboured, and something is very, _very_ wrong. "Newton, why—"

"Because I hate you—I _hate_ you, and you lied to me, and you don't get to be here anymore!" Newton says, all in a rush, and suddenly, he's crying, shoulders shaking. Hermann is very, very confused.

"You…you _hate_ me?" he says, slowly, instead of giving the appropriate response and attempting to comfort the biologist. "Lie to you? Newton, what are you _talking_ about?"

"I don't—" Newton stops, cut off by a sob. "I hate you—I _s—should_ hate you, but I—instead I hate—" he blinks rapidly, eyes shinning with tears, wraps his arms around himself. "I hate that it's a—all a l—lie," he manages, "I h—hate that I want you to care, e—even though you don't—you _don't_ care, and you keep l—lying and s—saying you do—a—and I w—want you to stay, b—but if you do I'll h—hate you for staying when it's o—only because you feel like you h—have to because we Drifted—"

He hiccoughs, unable to continue.

Hermann feels winded. "Newton," he says, hesitantly, "do you—do you think that I'm being insincere when I say that I care for you?"

" _O—obviously,_ " Newton chokes out, bitterly, "the D—drift scrambled your brain, it's n—not real, why would it be?"

"Do you have that little faith in me?" Hermann snaps, and backpedals when Newton looks like he's going to begin hyperventilating. "Newton, trust me, if I wanted to be gone, I _would_ be. I'm not staying out of some sort of misplaced belief that you will be unable to function if I leave, or because I've become— _deluded_ into caring about your person because of our Drift. I'm staying because—" he pauses, swallows. "Because I _do_ care. More than I ever thought I would, or could," he admits.

Then, cautiously, he says, "Would you…would physical contact be beneficial?"

"I—" Newt lets out a shuddering breath. "Y—yeah. Please."

Hermann pulls in a half-breath through his teeth, inducing a soft whistling sound, and moves to Newt's side of the desk. Carefully, he lowers himself so that he's level with Newt, and embraces him.

The biologist tenses almost imperceptibly before relaxing against him, head on his shoulder, fingers loosening from where they're digging into his own arms. Almost without thought, Hermann begins to breathe in a slow, even rhythm. Gradually, Newt's own breathing slows to match, until the shuddering, soundless sobs subside, and he's limp against Hermann.

"Sorry I got worked up," he murmurs, finally, quietly. "I just—I've been weirdly stressed, which is funny, since we're not at risk of being eaten by kaiju anymore." He laughs, soundless, almost, vibrating against Hermann's shoulder.

"And I'm sorry for what I said," Hermann replies; doesn't comment when Newt turns his head so that his breath rasps softly against Hermann's skin, just above the collar of his shirt. "It _was_ out of line."

"…I care to," Newt says, after a few moments. "You know that, right?"

"I do _now,_ " Hermann responds, which elicits a laugh that's only a bit watery.


	85. 85

**pain**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb**  
 **Summary:** "Hermann knows Newt—perhaps better than he knows even himself.

(Even after a decade.)"

* * *

The cell they keep Newton in, strapped upright, blood still on his collar, is small; the walls, sloped in, give one the sense that it's even smaller—small enough to be claustrophobic; or, at least, claustrophobic for Newton.

That thing—those _things_ in there, in the cell—are not Newton.

Hermann knows exactly what pain sounds like from Newton. He'll always know.

And for all that it wears his face and speaks in his voice, that is the one thing—besides, perhaps, the soullessness in his eyes—that is a dead giveaway. The Precursors are _loud_. They yell and rage and, once, memorably, spit at his feet, blood flecking the ground as well as saliva, sneer at him—which, admittedly, Newton did once, as well, under a wholly different set of circumstances—but—

When they rub Newton's wrists raw and bloody on the bindings, they _scream._

Newton—

When Newton is in pain, he's quiet; the worse the pain, the quieter he gets— _frighteningly_ so.

(Hermann doesn't like to remember how he found it out; the memory is one that haunts him in his sleep, though—because he knows, had someone else not pointed out that Newton was _unusually_ quiet—

Well.

He spent a week at the side of Newt's bed in the infirmary.

He doesn't want to think what could have happened instead.)

"He looks fine, now," Ranger Pentecost observes staidly, hands clasped behind his back; the weariness worn into the lines on his face, and yet, nevertheless, he refuses to let it drag him down. "Are you _sure_ that—?"

" _Yes,_ " Hermann snaps, not even turning to look at him; voice short and strained; hopes, desperately, that his own exhaustion and fear do not show. "It's not—that is not him, Ranger; I know Newton's behaviour as well as—perhaps, _better_ than—my own. That—that _thing_ looking back at me is _not_ Newton Geiszler."

He tightens his grip on the head of his cane; watches the Ranger's reflection in the glass raise a brow. "It's been ten years, Gottlieb," he says, "perhaps…"

 _Perhaps he's truly changed._

"He is _not_ complicit in this," Hermann bites. "I know what you think—"

"Hey, hey, chill," Pentecost placates, "that's not what I mean, Doc. I'm just saying that he might have changed in a decade, even just a bit. No one's saying he's the one who did it, yeah?"

"…yes, apologies," Hermann says, after a moment. "I, ah. Perhaps I'm just a bit… _anxious,_ I suppose. Well, Newton did always say I was tightly wound," he adds, with a self-deprecating half-smile.

The other hums; gaze flicking back to the bed on the other side of the glass; to Newton, sedated on a hospital bed; Hermann winces as he catalogues the number of tubes; the hospital gown he _knows_ is too flimsy to keep his friend Newton from waking with icy skin.

Hermann swallows; glances away.

This hurts; to stand here, separated by mere glass, and yet—

The distance feels further than it ever has.

The shift of weight from one foot to the other, the rustle of fabric; he turns his head, finds the young ranger's gaze fixed on him, expression unreadable. Hermann refuses to let the other's intensity discomfit him.

After a moment, Pentecost says, "You…you're _mourning._ "

"I—" he stops, not sure how to continue. "What gives you that impression?"

"I hear things," Pentecost shrugs. "It's no secret that you and Geiszler were…friends."

 _More,_ Hermann thinks, _more than mere friends._ " _Are,_ " he says. "I have no reason to believe that…that we no longer _are._ "

"But that's what you're afraid of," states the younger; offers the barest tilt of his head. "You're mourning, because in your mind, you've already lost him."

Hermann gives a sardonic smile. "You should have been a shrink instead of getting mixed in with the Jaegers."

"We'd all be dead if I had," Pentecost counters.

Hermann dips his head. "Fair enough."

"Word of advice," Pentecost says, turning to him fully. "Don't mourn. It…" he hesitates. "Don't give up before you even give it a shot," he says, finally. "Trust me."

Then, he turns, leaving Hermann by himself. "…perhaps he's right," Hermann murmurs, turning back to the glass, presses his hand against it. "Do you think so, Newton?"

The other doesn't respond, sedated as he is, but Hermann takes comfort in that he's still _alive._ "Yes, perhaps," he murmurs. "Sleep well, Newton Geiszler; may our dreams both be free of nightmares."

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams of Newton; of the biologist's laughter, of his limbs sprawled over the arms of the sofa, of the soft exhale of his breath, warm against the skin of Hermann's neck.

He dreams of the future; of one where Newton, though still not _alright_ is getting _better;_ a future where Hermann can be there for him when he goes silent with pain; a future where they get to reclaim a lost decade.

On the other side of the shatterdome, behind a bullet-proof two-way glass barrier, secured in a medical bed, Newton Geiszler slowly begins to wake for the first time in years, inexplicably at peace.


	86. 86

**saltwater band-aids**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** "After the Precursors are excised from Newt's mind, the damage they've done still remains; Newt's used to pushing himself to—and, often, beyond—his own limitations in ways that he simply wasn't before.

After all, the world needs to be saved—and from something that's his fault, nonetheless."

* * *

Hermann's hovering by his side—he can't see him, not with his gaze fixed solidly on the tablet in front of him, but he can _feel_ Hermann's presence—and Newt blinks; shifts in his seat, trying to string together words through the haze in his mind. "…yeah?"

A moment of silence, then, "Perhaps you should…leave the rest of that for tomorrow? You look," he hesitates. "Tired."

"Nah, it's…it's fine," Newt replies, "plus, we've got a ticking clock—the Anteverse isn't going to invade itself, you know?" He gives a short laugh—just a bit too high, he thinks, because Hermann, who's moved into his line of sight, flinches. "No, really, though, I should get this done."

"…alright," Hermann says, though Newt can tell he's not happy about it. "I'll see you tomorrow, then—do remember to go to bed, please, for your own health."

"Mmkay," Newt says, and pulls the tablet closer, ignoring the burn of his eyes at the light of the screen. "G'night."

The _click_ of Hermann's cane against the floor slowly fades away, leaving Newt alone in the lab; he turns his attention back to the program he's running, ignores the way that his fingers grow numb in the cold air.

The words and numbers seem to float before him, refusing to stay put on the document. Progress is slow and frustrating, like trying to wade through mud, but what he told Hermann is true; this _is_ important, and it's critical that he do his part to ensure the destruction of the Precursors.

He scrubs his eyes, blinks in an attempt to get rid of the sensation of sand scraping against the insides of his eyelids; checks the time and does a double-take.

It's past one in the morning—it's been three hours since Hermann went to bed, and he's accomplished—what, exactly? Three measly lines of notes—as if _that's_ going to help destroy the Precursors.

So, in essence, nothing. He's done _nothing._

He grits his teeth, hard; he has to do this—it's _his_ fault they even _need_ to take the fight to the Precursors. It's his failing, his weakness, that allowed the Precursors to gain a foothold, to almost _destroy the world._

And he's not managed to do _anything_ to try and make up for that.

He realises, with a start, that the red spotting on the table is blood—his nails dug deep into his palms, leaving angry, bloody crescents. He unclenches them, biting back a hiss of pain; rises from his seat and makes his way over to the sink.

The soap stings, but finally, the water washes away clear and cold. He switches off the tap and goes back to the desk.

He's going to get this done. It's what he has to do—his penance, if he's being poetic, but it's true.

There aren't any windows in the lab, so his only indication that the hours have passed by is the red display on the clock on his desk; other than that, he loses himself in the flow of data and analysis—something he'd never had the patience for before, well.

 _Before._

Now, though, he's used to pushing himself to—and, often, _beyond_ —his own limitations in ways that he simply _wasn't_ before. He can ignore the burn of light against his retinas, ignore the burn of the cold air against his skin.

After all, the world needs to be saved—and from something that's his fault, nonetheless.

He doesn't even realise Hermann's come in until the other sets a hand on his shoulder.

Newt flinches at the touch; feels a pang of loss when Hermann jerks his hand away at the motion. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asks.

"It's half-past eight in the morning, Newton," Hermann frowns. "I've been here since eight."

"Oh," Newt says, blinks to try and clear the blurriness away. "Right."

Hermann hesitates. Finally, he says, "You'll let me know if you need anything?" For some reason, Newt gets the impression that that's not what he was originally going to say. The expression on his face, perhaps—a flicker in his eyes, the cast of his gaze; a reluctance in the set of his brow.

Newt swallows. "Yeah, sure," he says, hoping desperately that it sounds truer than he knows it to be. "Uh, I kinda have work to do, so…"

"Er, yes, of course." Hermann bites his lip, looking as if he's about to say something, but in the end, opts simply to turn away and make his way back to the blackboards.

Newt rubs an icy finger against his palm before he returns to his work.

Around him, the lab falls away, giving in to the white buzz of his mind, punctuated only by the scrape of chalk in the background—the only thing from the real world that he's aware of besides the tablet on his desk.

He's pulled out of it when the stylus in his hand drops to the ground, skitters across the floor. He frowns, stands to retrieve it, and immediately has to grasp the edge of the desk for support as his vision blackens.

"—ewton? Newton?" Hermann's voice pierces through the veil of darkness, and he shakes his head, the motion clearing it away.

"Yeah?" he asks, bending over to pick up the stylus; turns to find Hermann turned to look at him, something uncomfortably like pity on his face. "D'you need something?" he questions, tone harsher than intended.

"No, I—" Hermann pauses, one hand holding onto the rung, the other by his side, and purses his lips. "Perhaps you should eat something?" he suggests.

Newt shakes his head. "Nah, I'm—I'm fine," he assures the other.

Hermann gives him a long look. "Alright," he says, at length. "I'm going to go eat something—are you sure you don't want me to—?"

" _Yes,_ " Newt snaps. "Yeah. I'm sure. I just—" he sighs. "I have more work to do," he finishes quietly.

Hermann peers at him, but, in the end, says nothing; shimmies down the ladder and grabs his cane. For a moment, he hovers at the bottom of the ladder, as if debating whether or not to leave, before he steps off the rung and pushes open the doors.

Newt pretends that the way that Hermann doesn't say anything to him for the rest of the day doesn't leave him feeling like his lungs are full of glass shards when he breathes.

He does go back to his quarters that night; splashes water on his face and brushes his teeth—wonders, briefly, if mint toothpaste has always been this _bitter_ —and—

The bed sits forebodingly against the wall, sheets crisp and perfectly made; it looks unused.

It—

Well, it _is._

Newt hasn't slept in it—not yet.

Every time he tries to lay down—even just on top of the covers, even exhausted out of his mind, it feels like a betrayal; how can he sleep when there's work to be done?

The last time he slept properly was when he was drugged up in the medbay after the Precursors were excised from his mind. Since then, he's been taking cat-naps in the lab and, when he _does_ return to his quarters, he doesn't sleep until he physically collapses of exhaustion, falls asleep over whatever piece of work he grabbed from the lab.

The prospect of sleep is…daunting.

The first—and only—time he attempted to sleep after the drug-induced stupor in the medical bay was…unpleasant, to say the least.

(Memories of flashing blue, of the jolt of electricity making his spine arch, pain shoved aside as they force him into the Drift; of days spent awake, fueled by coffee and determination as his hands code lines to put in motion a plan built by the kaiju masters.

Pain; fear; anger.

Hermann's eyes, forgiving, even as Newt's hands tighten around his neck; fingers rubbing his own, comfortingly.)

He blinks, vision clearing; the room swims back into view. Gingerly, he climbs onto the bed and rests his head on the pillow, closes his eyes—

There's something grabbing his legs—clawing at them, and he can't move; he's stuck, frozen—

He jolts upright with a gasp, looks down to find his legs tangled in kaiju guts—

 _Sheets._ His legs are tangled in the _sheets._ He's—he's fine.

He's shaking.

He can't—he can't do this. He can't be in this bed.

As quickly as possible, he untagles his legs; crawls out of the bed and onto the floor, leans back against the side of the bed; draws his knees up to his chest, arms wrapped around them; fingers gripping arms like icy anchors.

He closes his eyes and tries to breath without instantly dredging up flashes of yellow-green fluid and a kaiju brain in a penthouse that he barely ever lived in.

Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next day, he can't focus.

The very air around him seems to be prickling at his skin—everything is both too fast and too slow at the same time, and he can't _think._

He knows what it is; it's the unique after-effects of various mental health issues and thousands of Drifts thrown into a melting pot and simmered over the proverbial flame—a decade's worth of time spent, instead of in therapy, like he should have been, or, hell, even _taking his meds,_ running around, the Precursors' leashed puppet without even knowing it until it was too late.

The only reason he's not a mess of tapping and jittering right now is because he's elbow-deep in dissecting and analysing one of the cloned kaiju brains.

Not even the music that, oddly enough, _Hermann_ is the one to turn on, blasting as loudly as it can manages to calm his mind.

Hermann won't even snap at him, Newt thinks, bitterly; he's too afraid that Newt'll _break_ like fucking fine china.

He licks dry lips and sniffles; he's having difficulty breathing—it must be a cold he picked up from someone. It'll resolve itself soon enough.

In the meantime, he has work to do, and a whack brain to cope with.

He tries not to flinch as one of the brain-tentacle-thingies flop over on the dissection table—for a moment, it's almost as if it's moving of its own volition, and Newt does _not_ want that—

Yeah, that's. Yeah. Not fun memories there, brain, thanks.

"I think I'm going to take a walk," Newt announces, mostly to himself. He's not even sure Hermann _hears_ him over the music. He turns it off on his way out—Hermann'll appreciate the quiet.

The shatterdome is quiet—this late in the evening, and on a Saturday, most people are in bed, or at least heading in that direction. He only comes across a few J-techs—is that even what they're called anymore?—on the way through the halls.

He doesn't have a specific destination in mind, but he finds himself heading up to the roof.

It's drizzling lightly when he opens the roof access, the rain hitting the lenses of his glasses and blurring his vision. He steps out onto the roof and stumbles in a sudden, unusually harsh gust of wind.

The wind batters his frame, but he ignores it, pushing forward towards the edge of the roof; sits on the ground—it isn't _that_ wet, really—and gazes into the sky.

There are hundreds— _thousands_ —of pinpricks against the indigo of the sky; he stares up at them, momentarily in awe; he can't remember the last time he's seen so _many_ stars—in Shanghai, the Precursors didn't care, and even if they had, light-pollution meant that he wouldn't've been able to see much, anyway; and before that, in Hong Kong, they were frantically scrambling to try and stave off the kaiju—not much time to sit and stargaze.

He stares at them—manages, even, to pick out a few familiar constellations.

Soon, though, he's soaked through and shivering, chilled to the bone—and, to make matters worse, he still has work to get done.

He barely manages to make it halfway back to the lab.

He lets out a ragged breath; braces against the wall for support.

There's no _way_ he's going to manage to get there; he needs to sit down—or, preferably, _lay_ down.

"Lay down," he murmurs aloud, and shudders. He doesn't want—

He doesn't _want_ to _move_ another step.

Still, he forces one foot in front of the other; the drip of his hair has subsided, and he feels numb rather than frigidly cold, so he's _probably_ fine.

Hermann's already turned in for the night by the time he gets back—he's left a sticky-note on the door, and put Newt's samples into the cooler, which is pretty rad of him, honestly.

He manages to finish up what he left hanging when he left; as soon as he's done, he puts everything away and slinks back to his quarters, drags the pillow off the bed, and falls asleep on the ground, not even bothering to change out of his clothes.

* * *

When he wakes, his head's pounding; a fog clouds his thoughts, clings to them like smog, and his skin feels like it's going to burn off. He can't fucking _think._ His brain feels like mush, and he's pretty sure he's got like, three pounds of liquid right behind his eyes.

"Ugh, _fuck,_ " he groans, and then winces at the sound of his own voice and the pain of _speaking._ His throat feels like someone went at it with _sandpaper._

He drops his head back onto the pillow and drags a hand up; tries to rub his eyes, and gives a hiss, because, apparently, they're _very_ sensitive right now.

Fuck. He can barely move let alone stand _up._

His eyes slip shut, dragging his mind into the swirling black of unconsciousness.

* * *

The sound of knocking on the door wakes him; pulls him out of the liminal space of not quite asleep fully and not nearly awake. There's a ringing near his head; a spam call. He declines it.

"Whassit?" he croaks, voice hoarse. He swallows, then regrets the motion.

"Newton?"

 _Hermann._

"I—" he cranes his neck to view the clock.

 _Shit._ It's past two in the afternoon. He's _way_ late. Hermann's going to be _pissed._

"Mmyeah?" he manages, desperately trying to get up off of the floor; fails miserably.

"Can I come in?"

Hermann's request startles him—why on earth would Hermann want to come _in?_ He realises he's left the other hanging, and bites out, "Yeah."

There's the sound of the doorknob turning—unlocked, he always keeps it unlocked, now—and then Hermann steps in, face set in a stern expression—

And freezes.

Newt closes his eyes and braces himself for the worst; for Hermann to scold him about responsibility, to rip him apart for letting it get this far; because he _deserves_ that, to be honest; _expects_ it.

What he doesn't expect is for Hermann to stride across the small room, lower himself to Newt's side; on hand going to his forehead, the other cupping his jaw. "You've got a _raging_ fever," he says, softly. "Newton, you look _awful._ Why didn't you just call me?"

"My phone ran out of battery," Newt says—the first excuse that comes to mind. _I didn't want to burden you,_ is the truth of it.

Hermann glares at him half-heartedly. "I literally _just_ heard someone calling you. Your phone didn't run out of battery." Still, though, his tone has that horribly gentle quality to it.

"M'fine," Newt says. "You've made sure I'm not dying, you can go now. I know you have work you need to get done—"

"My _work,_ " Hermann says, shortly, eyes flashing, "is _secondary._ " His hand, the one cupping Newt's jaw, tilts his head so Newt's eyes meet his. Newt swallows.

"It's not," he says. "Your work is—your work is about saving the world, Herms. That's _way_ more important than running around checking up on your idiot labmate who doesn't fucking know how to handle his shitty mental health."

There's a pause, and then Hermann rises to his feet. Newt closes his eyes, head falling back against the pillow, and lets out a soft sigh. He opens them again a few seconds later; Hermann's nowhere in sight.

He must've realised that Newt's right.

Then Hermann reappears in Newt's line of sigh, jaw set. "Get up," he orders.

"Hermann, what—?"

"It's important to keep warm when you're sick," Hermann snaps. "Bed. Now. _Please,_ " he adds.

Newt stares at him for a moment, astonished. The other gives him a hard look—there's no trace of laughter in his eyes; Hermann is dead serious.

Newt manages to half-crawl, half-drag himself onto the bed.

"Do you want the pillow?" Hermann asks, pulling the sheets over him; tucks them in under his chin.

Newt swallows; wonders why Hermann's even bothering.

"No, thanks," he says, the words half-lost with the congestion.

Hermann nods and makes his way to the door to—

 _Leave,_ obviously.

Newt lets his eyes slip shut as the door closes behind him.

* * *

He's awoken, this time, by the sound of the nightstand being dragged across the floor; blinks awake to find Hermann setting a bowl on the top of the nightstand. Hermann notices he's awake after a few moments, says, softly, "I, ah, brought you some chicken soup for when you're ready to eat something, and a thick blanket."

Newt blinks up at him; the pieces of reality—Hermann, a bowl of soup, blankets—just don't…they don't make sense. They don't line _up_ properly. "Blanket?" he questions, hesitantly.

"Yes, of course!" Hermann exclaims. "Give me a moment—"

The blanket—folded neatly and placed at the end of the bed—turns out to be a thick, fuzzy one; dark blue and grey; when Hermann unfolds it and lays it over him, his movements are careful—gentle, almost, as if he doesn't want to disturb Newt.

Then, he sits down on the side of the bed; gives Newt a searching look.

"What are you doing?"

The question bursts out of Newt, scraping at his throat, before he can think.

Hermann blinks at him. "…staying?" he says. "To take care of you; you've burnt yourself out, Newton."

Newt gives a short bark of laughter; ignores the pain from it. "C'mon, Herms, cut it out," he says, "you can leave, now. I know you have work you need to do, you don't need to draw this joke out any longer, okay? I don't need anyone to pretend to care. I can—I can deal with myself."

The other stares at him; bewildered. "Joke?" he questions, "Newt, why on earth would I do that?"

Newt stares at him, the pieces of the puzzle clicking against each other in his mind, until, finally, they fall into place.

Hermann _means_ it.

The surprise shows on his face—Hermann's own expression crumbles, just a bit, and he leans forward, brushing away the strands of hair stuck to Newt's forehead. "Oh, Newton," he murmurs, "it's alright to want people to help you; it's alright to ask for it, Newton. It's what we want to do—we _want_ to help, Newton."

"Oh," Newt says, numbly.

For a moment, it seems like they're suspended there, unmoving; Hermann's hand hovering over Newt's forehead, Newt's breath caught in his throat.

"You care?" Newt asks, hesitantly, barely daring to believe it.

Hermann draws in a breath; gently strokes Newt's hair. "Newton," he says, softly; eyes meeting his own, "of course I do. I always have."

Newt drifts off with Hermann's hand carding through his hair; for the first time in longer than he remembers, the hollowness in his chest gone; replaced, instead, by a comforting warmth.


	87. 87

**the flower blooming in adversity (is far more precious than any jewel)**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** "They've been through a lot together—but this is far more frightening to Hermann than even the frightened rasp of Newton's voice that day at Shao Industries." **  
**

* * *

"I'm scared, Hermann," Newt says; voice pleading; eyes wide as they wheel him away, strapped to the gurney. Hermann, at his side, swallows; reaches out a hand to the biologist. The other, on his cane, grips tight; Otachi's teeth, carved from her offspring's vertebra, dig into the tips of his fingers.

Newt's fingers grip his hand harder; enough that he knows it'll bruise there, later; doesn't seem to register it—Hermann himself barely registers it, his entire field of vision narrowing to Newton, rail-thin, shivering beneath a flimsy white medical gown, hooked up to various intravenous medications.

He rubs his thumb against Newt's hand in a vain effort to comfort; croaks, "It'll be alright, Newton, I promise."

He doesn't know.

Newt might die in there, and Hermann can tell from the panic in his eyes that the other, even in his barely-lucid state, knows that as well. He swallows again. "I'll be waiting for you, Newton. I'll be by your side the entire time." He pauses; Newt's eyes grow ever glassier; his gaze no longer fixed on Hermann, but rather, on some vague middle-distance. "I'll be by your side the entire time, Newton—you just have to come home to me."

The last bit is whispered; caught on the rise of a dreadful, hideous snarl of pain rising in his throat, and he's not sure Newt hears it.

"Doctor Gottlieb?"

It's one of the nurses; white on white on white, the only colour that of concern inked into the lines on her face. "We're just about ready to start," she says, gently, "are you sure you want to stay…? No one would fault you for not wanting to—you've already stood by his side for so much."

"No, I—" he pauses; glances at Newt's hand where it's fallen limply from gripping his own, and onto the gurney. Gently, he grasps it in his own. "I need to be there," he says, voice trembling. "I promised—I promised him I'd be there for the entire procedure."

She nods. "Of course," she says, softly. Before she steps away, she says, "Doctor, if…if anything goes wrong, don't blame yourself. I know you care about him a lot, but…he wouldn't want you to, yeah?"

Hermann gives a jerky nod; wonders if it's always been that obvious; the caring.

* * *

It starts like this: Newt's head, bloody, lolls onto his shoulder; limp limbs jolting as he seizes; Hermann, frantic, drops to the floor beside him; gathers him in his arms, heedless of the way the Pons set digs into his shoulder, or the blood smearing on his clothes as Newton seizes again, head falling so his face is buried against Hermann's chest.

It starts like this: Newton's head, bloody, held up in defiance that is not his own; fingers scraping against the restraints hard enough to rub them raw; voice multi-faceted; and when it's over, the Precursors no longer wishing to bother with speech, turning inwards to torment their host—Newt writhes and screams, and then, later, shudders and moans, tears streaming from unseeing eyes down his cheeks, whetting dried and cracked lips. Hermann stands on the other side of a two-way mirror, and thinks, perhaps, that he can hear his heart break.

It starts like this: an offer of an experimental, high-risk treatment that might excise the Precursors from Newt's tortured mind; a hundred warning labels and a thick folder of paper on everything that might go wrong. Whispers, all around him, wondering why he's trying to save Newton Geiszler—the man who loved monsters; the man meant for madness.

Newt—maybe he _is_ meant for madness.

Hermann isn't sure he wants to believe that just yet.

* * *

It takes four hours for Newt's monitor to show his brainwaves begin to approach human baseline.

Hermann stays in the room the entire time; spends half of it sitting by Newton's side in a chair, desperately clinging to his hand; praying to god that this works; that Newt gets _better._ The only thing that keeps him from hyperventilating from anxiety is the iron-clad grip conviction that he _must_ stay lucid for when Newton wakes.

Finally, the monitor beeps; begins inching towards what one of the technicians inform him is "normal".

Hermann lets out a shuddering breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding; reaches out to brush away the strands of hair stuck to Newt's sweat-beaded forehead. Newt shifts, just slightly, brows creasing, lips puckering. "Shhh," Hermann murmurs, rubbing his thumb against the other's clammy hand, "it's alright, Newton. I'm here. You're doing well, _liebste,_ shhhh…"

After a moment, Newt's face slackens, expression evening out, as if he's heard Hermann's words. Hermann blinks rapidly, trying to ward off tears. Maybe, just maybe, for once…everything _is_ going to be okay.

And then—

"It's over, Doctor," one of the nurses informs him; relief seeping into his voice as he says, "it worked."

Hermann sags against the back of his chair. "Thank you," he manages; barely.

They move Newton to another room; change the fluid medications out; offer Hermann an extra pillow to wedge between his back and the hard plastic of the chair. Hermann takes the pillow with a murmur of thanks, and then the team is gone, leaving him alone with an unconscious Newton.

He dozes, Newt's hand in his own.

* * *

When he wakes up, Newt's propped up against the wall by multiple pillows, weakly playing with his fingers. When he notices Hermann's woken up, he gives a barely-there grin. "Mornin', sunshine."

His voice is thin and reedy; breaks halfway through the second word and trails off into a croak, but in that moment, Hermann thinks it's the most imperfectly perfect thing he's ever heard.

Hermann smiles back at him. "The procedure went flawlessly," he breathes, barely daring to believe it.

"It did," Newt agrees, "and…you were there for me the whole time. Thank you, Hermann."

The soft acknowledgement—the admission that Newt _had,_ indeed, heard his promise, makes emotion well up in Hermann's chest. "Of course I was," he chokes out.

Newt doesn't say anything in reply, but he squeezes Hermann's hand, and, for a split second, Hermann's enveloped in the bright warmth of _love_ echoing across a bond he'd thought no longer existed.


	88. 88

**affection grows like moss; slowly**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** ""Respectfully, _sir,_ " Hermann cuts in, raising his chin; not quite glaring at Geiszler, by the Marshal's side, but— _close._ "Geiszler and I are—"

" _Acquainted,_ " the biologist says, with a wink and a flourish of his arms—oh, god, he's gone and got a _tattoo,_ garish and dreadful; no, _multiple_ tattoos, and _kaiju,_ at that—"been a while, _Herms._ " He wiggles his fingers at Hermann; tone, mockingly friendly."

* * *

The summer of 2017 begins with Hermann in high hopes; his mind bursting with excitement at finally meeting Doctor Newton Geiszler.

It ends with the sharp sting of words; Newton— _Geiszler,_ now, he reminds himself, the thought sitting bitterly in the back of his mind; a scab he can't seem to stop picking—proclaiming for all the world to hear about what a _bore_ Hermann's turned out to be; disappointment flashing across his face.

It is thusly understandable, then, that Hermann is more than a tad bit prickly when Geiszler is assigned to the Shatterdome he's working in, merely a few years later. Time may heal all wounds, but some take longer than others—and this one, Hermann's less than happy to admit, is a deep cut.

"Respectfully, _sir,_ " Hermann cuts in, raising his chin; not quite glaring at Geiszler, by the Marshal's side, but— _close._ "Geiszler and I are—"

" _Acquainted,_ " the biologist says, with a wink and a flourish of his arms—oh, god, he's gone and got a _tattoo,_ garish and dreadful; no, _multiple_ tattoos, and _kaiju,_ at that—"been a while, _Herms._ " He wiggles his fingers at Hermann; tone, mockingly friendly.

Hermann glowers; grips his cane tightly and throws back his shoulders. "I _cannot_ work with this—this _man_ in my proximity," he says, stiffly. "Marshal, is there no one else he can share a lab with—?"

"He's with you," the Marshal interrupts. "That is _final,_ Gottlieb. Gentlemen—good day."

Hermann huffs, watches the tall man stride away; Geiszler, still standing there, gives him a smug look. Hermann grits his teeth; grinds out, "Geiszler, if you _dare_ get any of my equipment dirty—"

Geiszler laughs. It is not kind or nice. "Well fuck you too, Hermann," he shoots back. "I'll be minding my own business, _thanks._ "

And then he's moving, running back and forth to place things on tables and in cupboards and, once, memorably, balanced precariously in between two chairs; Hermann stops watching then, returns to his boards, and thinks, perhaps, perhaps—he can survive this.

Geiszler begins to blare some god-awful excuse for music that sounds like someone let an asthmatic chicken screech into a microphone and added the sound of nails scraping against a window-pane as the backdrop. Hermann twitches, the chalk, in that instant, pressing just a _little_ to hard, and then snapping off in his hand.

He stares at the half remaining in his grip for a moment, and then descends the ladder, digging through a stack of papers in his desk drawer to unearth the complaint forms.

* * *

"'Geiszler's infernal racket is impeding my ability to work and his actions are costing valuable supplies'—really, Hermann?" Geiszler asks him, a few weeks later, a copy of the—first of many—complaint form Hermann submitted that first day.

Hermann, feeling petty— _he's_ playing his "music" again—sets down his chalk and dusts his hands off just _so,_ sending a cascade of chalkdust onto the biologist, the white powder sticking to one of the smears of—thankfully neutralised—kaiju blood on his hideous shirt.

Geiszler scowls at him. "Uncalled for," he snipes, and sets the paper down on Hermann's desk.

A few minutes later, he's back, a coil of kaiju intestine in gloved hand, and he looks Hermann right in the eye and drops it in the chair at Hermann's desk.

"Geiszler—!" Hermann exclaims, first with shock, and then, again, with rage; " _Geiszler!_ You—you—you filthy little—!"

He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to grab his cane, but once he's got it, he's practically sprinting after the _wretched_ little man, a snarl on his lips. Geiszler laughs, then, high and mocking, and ducks into the decontamination shower, slamming the door behind him before Hermann can get to him; grins.

For a second, Hermann stands there, shaking in rage; and then the haze of red clears just enough that he can think; offer Geiszler a vindictive little smile, and turn the shower on— _cold._

Barely audible through the door, Geiszler lets out a shriek, and then, sopping wet, looking for all the world like a drowned rat, glares at Hermann balefully.

Hermann turns away; a sudden, unexplainable urge to smile rearing its head.

* * *

Oddly, he can't remember when _Geiszler_ becomes _Newton_ —both in his mind and his speech, now; the former tinged with a fondness he cannot bring himself to be rid of, no matter how hard he tries; for it clings to the name like the kaiju viscera does to the biologist's clothes.

It dawns on him in the fourth year; standing at the board, chalk poised to spill forth truths only he can decipher; in his periphery, Newton bounces between tasks, excitedly shouting observations into his voice-recorder; passion radiating from him like light from the sun, and Hermann thinks, idly, that Newton's love, itself, is a bit like the sun.

And his love for the kaiju; Hermann can almost love them, himself, hearing Newton ramble about them passionately, a spark of joy in his eye; undampened, even when he's almost died because of them so often.

What a foolish thing to do, to fall in love with Newton Geiszler, the man who loved monsters more than his own life.

At that, he nearly tumbles off the ladder.

"Whoa!" Newton shouts, rushing across the hazmat tape, "you okay there, Hermann?"

It takes a moment to steady himself, and when he does, he barely manages to croak, "Yes, quite—quite fine, Newton, thank you."

Newton gives him a doubtful look. "Alright," he says, "but if you need anything, just give a shout."

"What I _need_ is for you to stop distracting me," Hermann snaps, but it's not got much bite, and Newton grins at him.

* * *

"Move in with me," Newton says to him, two days after the war's officially over.

Hermann stares at him. "You're crazy," he decides, and tips his head forward, sensing an oncoming nosebleed. Though he can't see it, he can feel Newton grinning at him broadly. "Why?" he demands.

"Well," says the other, and Hermann gets the distinct feeling that he's ticking off the reasons on his fingers, "first of all, neither of us have a ton of money. Secondly, uh, I'm not sure distance is the best idea right now. And thirdly, I want plants but you're the one with a green thumb; I've killed _cacti,_ Hermann, seriously."

"I _know,_ " Hermann grumbles. He'd managed to rescue and revitalise that poor cactus, but it was a close call. "I hope you're aware, though, that those are horrible reasons."

Newt hums. "I'm not hearing a no."

Hermann gives a put-upon sigh. "Fine, nuisance. I'll share a flat with you."

"Aw," Newton coos, "you've upgraded me to _nuisance._ Be still my beating heart."

Hermann doesn't dignify that with a response.

* * *

At some point, they fall into a pleasant domesticity; Newton's presence as natural as breathing.

Hermann's not sure if they've crossed a line; he's not sure if there even _was_ a line to start with; if there was, though, it's gotten moved, or erased, or _something,_ because they sit, pressed shoulder-to-knee on the couch, and Newton curls into his side when they sleep, and Hermann's started to order them just one desert to share.

He's not sure he has any desire to label it, but it's nice.

He closes the book he's been reading from, and presses his lips to the top of Newt's head, pillowed on his shoulder.

/em


	89. 89

**thoughts of the soul**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** "Newt finds something Hermann's forgotten about when they move to a new flat; catharsis ensues."

* * *

"I hate moving," Newt gripes, and nudges one of the boxes with his toe. "What even is _in_ this box, Herms?"

Hermann, sitting at the bar counter, having taken a break from unpacking for tea, sighs. "I honestly have no idea," he replies, "I'm fairly certain that box has been in storage for…" he pauses, thinking. "At least a year," he decides, "if not longer."

Newt hums. "I don't remember moving into the penthouse being this bad," he comments.

"Do you even _remember_ moving into the penthouse?" Hermann asks drily, and takes another sip of his tea, watching as Newt pats his pockets for a key to slice open the tape. "Use a _knife,_ Newton."

"I can do what I want," Newt shoots back, "and, to be fair, I'm pretty sure that I hired a bunch of people to move and unpack my stuff for me when I moved into the penthouse."

"Hmm." Hermann sets his cup down, jaw cracking as he yawns.

A second later, Newt mirrors it, and then scowls; rips through the tape with a bit more force than is probably actually required, and nearly gives himself a cardboard splinter. Once he actually opens the box, though, the contents don't disappoint.

"Holy _shit,_ Hermann," Newt says, and holds up a tee-shirt that says _K-Science Bros_ on it. "You _kept_ it?"

Hermann scowls at him, ears red, and says, crossly, "Only because I didn't remember to throw it out."

Newt smiles at him; Hermann really _is_ adorable sometimes.

The next item he pulls out is a bit more puzzling; it's a black-bound notebook, but the texture of the material on the cover—leather—seems oddly familiar.

He holds it up for Hermann to inspect; tips his head questioningly.

"Oh," Hermann says, and gives a light cough. "That's—er, well," he starts, and then stops; fingers tapping at the counter, a tic he picked up from Newt; starts, again. "Your jacket wasn't salvageable as a garment, but it seemed wrong to simply throw it away," he explains.

Newt stares at him for a moment; puzzled; and then it clicks. "Wait," he says, "you mean—the jacket I had back in Hong Kong? The one I had to throw away after V-K day?"

Hermann nods. "I—well, I rescued it, against my better judgement," he admits. "I think that notebook's got sketches in it—either that, or it's full of illegible notes."

Newt barely hears him. Reverently, he runs his hands over the leather—it's soft, even now, clearly well-used, and it's free of any blood, dirt, and dust that drove Newt to toss the jacket in the first place.

When he opens the cover, he nearly drops the notebook; there, on the first page, is a sketch of him—from their disastrous first meeting. He remembers that moment exactly; he'd spotted Hermann and beamed, feeling breathless and wild. "I didn't know you remembered," he murmurs, looking up at Hermann.

The other's frozen, cup half-raised. "Oh," he says, softly, after a moment. "Yes, of course I did. It was…" he swallows, glancing away for a moment. "I drew it the day after," he says. "I thought—I thought that you'd never look at me like that again, so I wanted…I wanted to have a way to remember."

Newt blinks rapidly, trying to ward off the tears that are starting to prickle at his eyes. "I'm fine," he says, mostly to himself, and stares up at the ceiling until his eyes are dry again. He glances back down at the notebook; flips to the next page.

It's a collage piece; his name put together from cut out letters, various images—beakers, a wormhole, a bioluminescent jellyfish, the Berlin skyline, and more—connected in a web by delicate, straight blue lines; each image captioned in Hermann's tiny, immaculate hand.

Newt sits on the floor, barely aware of anything besides the book in his hands; Hermann, he thinks, says something, but it doesn't register; he's lost in this time-capsule of Hermann's thoughts—thoughts of _him._

He leafs through the pages carefully, barely daring to breath; as if the action will disturb the odd sense of calm and peace that has washed over him.

Hermann's hand is on his shoulder—he must have sat down by Newt's side, but he's not saying anything; not anymore; but Newt can, peripherally, sense the worry radiating off of him but he—

He doesn't think he can _speak;_ not now.

The next page has watermarks on it; _tear-marks,_ Newt realises, a moment later; it's a poem—no, a _song,_ written in three different parts; three different writing utensils—to start, pen, dark blue, then a red marking pen, and then, finally, the last is written in pencil.

(He doesn't miss that the second part is written in a shaky hand; the letters retraced repeatedly so that they're barely legible; the ink leaking through to the other side of the thick paper.)

 _I remember the first time I slept_

 _in the arms of my sweet nuisance_

 _never in my life had I felt so safe_

 _as usual feelings were a mistake_

 _we started walking on eggshells_

 _that shattered like the weakest hopes that I had_

 _my sweet nuisance_

 _sometimes I get the feeling you're becoming someone else_

 _sometimes I get the feeling something's wrong inside your head_

 _then I remember, leaving me is only sane_

 _then came the day a man's psyched eyes made the Earth shake_

 _then came the day my man's haunted eyes made my heart break_

 _they say the hero wins once the villain dies_

 _but darling I lost the moment that you fell_

 _sometimes I had the feeling you were becoming someone else_

 _sometimes I had the feeling something was wrong inside your head_

 _but then I though that leaving me was only sane_

 _maybe if I'd believed it when you said that you love me_

 _maybe if I had it wouldn't be like this_

 _I'm not good at being loved, and it's too late_

 _but please, please let me try again_

 _my sweet nuisance_

 _sometimes I get the feeling you're no longer someone else_

 _sometimes I get the feeling it's just you in your head_

 _and I remember, love is our only chance_

 _my sweet nuisance_

 _my sweet nuisance_

 _my sweet nuisance_

He traces the tips of his fingers over the words; the pain in them is obvious—the pain, the loss, all plain to see there in Hermann's words, _but—_

"You're… _hopeful,_ at the end," he murmurs, not even realising he's the spoken until the words are out. "You are, aren't you? That's—" he swallows heavily.

Hermann draws his hand away from Newt's shoulder; squeezes it into a fist before he slowly releases it. "Yes," he admits, softly. "I'd—I'd forgotten I'd written that. It's…" he pauses, then continues. "The first few lines, I wrote only a few months after you left. The second part—well," he looks down. "It was something of a cathartic exercise, to spill words out onto paper; attempt to parse my emotions, you understand."

"Yeah," Newt says, quietly.

"I think the third part was the last thing I put into that notebook," Hermann says, "it was right after you were cleared. And then I put it in a box of things that got put into storage, and I'd…forgotten about it until now."

"It's…" Newt searches for the words; comes up empty.

"Yes," Hermann agrees; somehow understanding what he means without his needing to voice it. "I—to be quite honest, I never thought you'd see it, but…I think, perhaps, that it was cathartic for you to read it."

Newt nods. "Yeah," he says, "you, uh, really have a way with words. And I…it's good, the end, I mean. The hope, you know? Like, that was a seriously fucked up time for both of us, but for you especially—hell, I'm surprised we managed to get _here._ "

"In a good way, I hope," Hermann says, an edge of light-heartedness to his tone, and Newt lets out something like a laugh.

"Yeah," he agrees, "in a good way. I'm… _happy,_ you know. And I hope you are, too."

" _Yes,_ " Hermann replies. "Now, perhaps we could get to unpacking the rest?"

This time, Newt _does_ laugh.


	90. 90

**trust takes time (have we got any to spare?)**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** "Newt—he'd never meant to hurt Hermann; but he had, anyway.

Still, amazingly, there's hope to be had."

* * *

Newt doesn't _mean_ to hurt him, really, he doesn't; but at the end of the day, the truth is, that's exactly what he does: mocking words about Hermann's appearance, about his character, about his work, spilling forth; vaguely, he feels horrified; knows, later, he'll regret is, but all he's got now is a vicious sense of _glee._

Hermann's dumbstruck—for a moment.

And then he's biting right back, tearing Newt to shreds, and, oh, it feels so _good._

And then, when it's over, he comforts himself with the fact that Hermann _did_ snap back; tells himself it was doomed to end badly regardless. So he barrels on—that's what he does best, after all; be an unstoppable force.

"Or I'm dead," he says, into the recorder, running high and half-disassociating at this point, barely aware that the words he's saying aren't just the train of thought in his head, "in which case, hah, I _still_ win…sort of."

That nearly brings him up short—it's not that he _fears_ death; he doesn't. But he's never…been _this_ close to it before. "It's like the prologue-y bit in White Fang, where the one dude's narrating," he murmurs, aloud, "you know the one, Hermann, about noticing the tendons in his hands…"

He might be delirious, slightly; Hermann's not there, he _knows_ that, but still—he _is._

 _Breathe,_ he reminds himself. "Kaiju-human Drift initiation in…three…two…one—"

The nervousness he thought he'd banished races up his spine, sends what feels like jolts of electricity through his blood, his brain, _our brain,_ oh, the connection _hurts,_ rips through him as he's linked to the collective, and yet, somehow, it feels _right—_

 _Heat-death,_ he thinks, vaguely, in a mind and voice not quite his own.

And then his head is hitting the ground, the pain barely-registered; Hermann's gripping him, tightly, cradling his head, and Newt's hands scrabble weakly for purchase without success; he falls into the dark.

* * *

He hands Newt the glass, silently; watches as Newt struggles to drink, water sloshing out as his knee jitters, hands shaking; spills onto his shirt, sticks it against his skin, and yet, Newt can't bring himself to care.

Absently, he wipes away the blood trickling down from his nose, again; notes that Hermann flinches.

"Are you quite alright, Newton?" Hermann asks, awkwardly, and Newt nods. Hermann offers him a smile, and then, like a flash of lightning's struck him, Newt thinks—

 _Oh._

He's _hurt_ Hermann.

The tape is there on the counter; Hermann must have listened to it, afterwards, during the hazy time when Newt was shivering in the chair after Hermann managed to get him up off of the ground.

Hermann is smiling, happy, but—

There's an undercurrent of feeling behind his easy smile: resignation. He doesn't trust him not to hurt him, he's just accepted it as the cost of being around him.

The realisation has Newt freezing mid-blink; because, at the end of it all—

Hermann _doesn't_ trust him.

And—

Well, Newt can hardly blame him.

"Do you need more water?" Hermann asks.

Newt licks his lips—dry and cracking, still. "No," he says, flatly. He means to say _thank you._ The words stick in his throat. Hermann's smile drops, replaced by the familiar half-frown.

"Alright, then," he huffs, "I'm going to retrieve Marshal Pentecost."

The _click, click, click,_ of his cane against the floor sounds angry as he leaves. Newt closes his eyes and tries to see black instead of a riot of sensory data from alien minds projected against the insides of his eyelids.

And then the Marshal's there, and he's _listening_ to Newt, finally, _finally,_ and that almost makes up for the way that his heart feels like it's been exposed to dry ice.

* * *

"I'll go _with_ you," Hermann says, meeting his gaze, and Newt falters; nearly drops the cables he's holding.

"You'd do that for me?" he squeaks, and then, quickly, "or— _with_ me?" because this cannot be real; Hermann doesn't trust him, and the fucking _foundation_ for Drift compatibility is trust, is _love,_ for fuck's sake, and this—whatever they have, with the late-night necking and sometimes fucking, _this_ is not either.

And yet—

Maybe, maybe—he _wants_ it to be. He wants to gain Hermann's trust, _properly,_ whatever that takes, whatever that _means._

So he looks back at the cables in his hands, and says, "I can rig up a second pons headset," and tries not to grin, because this— _them_ —it's fucking broken but it's still _working,_ somehow, like when you plug the wrong numbers into the wrong equation and still get the right _damn_ answer, because—

Because sometimes, _sometimes,_ the universe grants miracles.

And Newt isn't going to throw his away.

(The Drift, this time, feels less like _pain_ and more like understanding; this time, mutual.

As they sit in the military helicopter, the floor beneath them shaking, Hermann says, "Trust is built on open dialogue."

Newt thinks that's probably true. "I'm not very good at it, though," he points out.

Hermann scowls at him, without much rancour. "If we succeed , you'll have plenty of time to practice," he reminds Newt, and doesn't protest when Newt's hand slips into his own when the helicopter gives a particularly violent shudder.

 _Progress,_ Newt thinks. Admittedly, nonlinear.)


	91. 91

**life-saver**

 **Rating: T  
** **Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** ""Oh, I've never done a _nude_ ritual before," Josh says, catching sight of what he's doing, and Newt freezes.

" _Ritual?_ " he squeaks.

"Yeah, we usually do them clothed…I dunno, is that like, a regional thing?" Josh asks, tilting his head."

* * *

"I should be over him," Newt moans, and buries his face in his hands. The other, across the table from him, gives an awkward cough. Newt barrels on, despite his date's obvious self-consciousness. "It's just, like, you know, right? He's always like," he clears his throat, going for Hermann's accent. "'Newton, why are you always hounding me?', or 'Newton, why do you never shut _up_ ', or 'Geiszler, you are the bane of my life, why won't you leave me _be!?_ '."

"Er," his date opines, and Newt continues.

"Like, what am I supposed to say? Throw my arms up at the sky and shout, 'Because I will never be over you, Hermann!'?" he huffs; shakes his head. "Nah. So, anyway, enough about me."

That's the right thing to say, apparently, because the man across from him perks up, finally, no longer poking at his food. "Well," he says, "the recent kaiju attack's got _everyone_ excited, you know." He shoots Newt a look—searching, with _something_ Newt's not sure he understands.

Still, he grins; this is his headspace, basically—the kaiju. "Yeah," he agrees, "I mean, did you _see_ her? Like, fuck, man, I've _never_ seen that kind of enhancement before—I mean, like, with the way she was like, practically _tailor-made_ as an opponent for Hyperion, just," he pauses for a breath, and then, knees jittering beneath the table, "like, _wow,_ you know? Just...wow. Wow."

"Yeah," the other—Josh, Newt remembers, finally—"marvellous, right?"

"Uh huh," Newt hums, and twirls his spaghetti around his fork. "They really are, dude. Beautiful, too, you know?"

Josh's smiling, now, too, broadly; Newt's earlier misstep with his moping about Hermann forgotten. "Oh, yes," he breathes, "beautiful creatures, truly—and to think, there are those who don't appreciate them!" He laughs; shakes his head.

Newt nods. "Yeah, man, I feel you," he replies, "I swear, everyone I work with is like...they just don't get it, you know? But you—you _do_ —"

"Are you guys done?"

It's the waiter—he's got the bill. Newt glances down at his plate; finds it empty, as is Josh's. Huh. Time flies.

For the barest second, something flashes across the other's expression before it's gone. "I have an appointment I need to get to soon," he says apologetically, "but, uh, if you want, we can do this again...?"

"Uh—yeah, yeah," Newt stumbles over the words, "uh—" before he can grab the bill, though, Josh's got his card out, and, with a charming smile, hands it to the waiter. Newt rubs his neck awkwardly. "I'll pay next time," he offers, "uh, I don't know when I'll be free next, so—" he pats down his pockets for his phone; unlocks it. "I'll, uh, text you, if you can just—"

He hits his elbow against the table while handing the phone over and gives a hiss of pain. Josh doesn't notice; he's not moving, even, eyes fixed on—

 _Ohh,_ Newt thinks. "Uh," he laughs, and tugs his shirt-sleeve down, "look, dude, I—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Josh reassures, finally takes the phone, puts his number in, "I understand—I've just never seen anyone with that style before."

A wave of relief crashes over Newt, and he smiles slightly. "Yeah—I got the first one in '13—I was at MIT then, and I knew a friend of a friend who owed me a favour, so..." he tugs at the cuff of his sleeve. "Usually people get pretty worked up about them, but you're chill. It's nice meeting others, you know?"

Josh nods. "Yeah, I know _exactly_ what you mean," he replies, and flashes Newt a smile before rising from the booth.

* * *

"—Newton!" Hermann yells, rapping his fingers against the desk.

Newt blinks, raising his gaze to find the mathematician red-faced, smoke practically pouring out of his ears. "...ye-es?" he asks, and turns his phone over, thumbing the on/off button.

"Did you hear _anything_ I just said?" Hermann snaps.

"Uh..." Shit, shit, _shit._ Think, _fast._ "Nope, I kinda tuned out when you started saying stupid shit," he replies flippantly, and then wishes he could smack himself in the face. _Wrong_ move, stupid, stupid, _stupid!_

Hermann purses his lips tightly, looking a bit like he's been sucking on a lemon. "I cannot believe—! Newton Geiszler, you—you— _you!_ " he shouts, brows furrowed, a glare on his face; reaches up, without thought, to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose to better focus the laser-like intensity of his gaze upon Newt.

Newt sneaks a look at his phone.

" _Newton Geiszler!_ " Hermann roars, and shakes a finger at him, red as a beet—which is to say, verging on an ugly purple, which _cannot_ possibly healthy... "I am trying to _speak_ to you about _important_ matters, and you cannot even have the courtesy to _pay attention?_ "

Newt feels a tad bit like he's in highschool again, too young, and sitting in the principal's office for setting fire to the science portables. "Well, I haven't set _anything_ on fire," he mutters, "so I don't know what all the fuss is about."

" _You spilt kaiju viscera on the clean cups and nearly poisoned me when I went for my morning tea!_ " Hermann retorts, loudly, "would it _kill_ you to follow OSHA guidelines for _once_ in your life, Newton..."

"Uh, I dunno, man," he shrugs, "I've never tried."

That leaves Hermann sputtering with rage; he'll calm down in a bit—they both know Newt isn't _that_ reckless, really, but he does kind of enjoy pushing Hermann's buttons. He checks his phone again. "Hey, Hermann?" he says, once the other no longer looks like he's about to explode, "do you have anything you need me to do for you tomorrow?"

"No," Hermann huffs, "why?"

"Oh, no reason," Newt says; waves a hand. "I've got a date is all, and I figured I'd be nice and grab you something if you needed it—and give you the peace and quiet you're always harping on about."

Hermann stands stock-still. "A... _date?_ " he asks, sounding slightly strangled.

"Yeah," Newt says, "you know, when you meet people you don't know, go out for food, maybe, in order to scope out possible romantic partners...?"

"Yes, thank you, Newton, I _do_ know what a date is," Hermann snaps. "I was simply... _surprised,_ is all."

"Mm," Newt hums, "well, surprise! I have a date—tomorrow. Nice guy—Joshua Halter, tall, blonde, handsome, likes kaiju as much as I do...you'd hate him."

Hermann scowls. "Well," he says. " _Well._ Have... _fun._ On your _date._ " He spits the word out like it's venom.

"Yeah, I hope I have _fun,_ too," Newt grins and throws in a wink for good measure.

Hermann's look grows blacker.

* * *

Yes, perhaps searching the internet for information about Newton's date is a bit far and jealousy-driven; Hermann will own up to that.

And yes, perhaps asking _Tendo_ to do a background check on him is a bit of an overreaction; Hermann will admit.

But—

Well, there's _something_ about it that just doesn't sit right with him.

'Just as into kaiju as me', Newt had said—but, well, the only other people Hermann can think of who are _just as into kaiju_ as he is are...well.

 _Kaiju cultists._

It's _probably_ nothing. Hermann's _probably_ overreacting.

But.

It niggles at the back of his mind, and, well—better safe than sorry, as Newton loves to say.

And right now, he is very, _very_ glad for his paranoia, because _Joshua Halter,_ as Tendo has just told him, is _not_ a fellow kaiju enthusiast of Newt's; he's a fairly high-ranking member of the kaiju cult, the Beauno Kai.

Newton really has the _worst_ luck.

"Fortune favours the brave," Hermann scoffs, dialling, again, the biologist's number and reaching only voicemail. "Fortune _favours_ the brave—hah! You moron, Geiszler, you're going to get killed—or worse, _abducted by a cult!_ Answer, you bastard, _answer!_ " "Uh, Hermann?" Tendo asks, tentatively. "You realise you're probably overreacting, right? Like, Newt is probably just busy on his date—it's rude to answer your phone on a date—"

" _He could be_ dead!" Hermann shouts, and goes back to furiously redialling the utter _moron_ that is his labmate, to no avail.

* * *

Newt's phone rings again.

This is a bit of an issue, given that he's currently trying to stumble through the darkened living-room of his date, and the sound is only disorienting him. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," he chants, and fumbles to turn it to silent.

Josh waves him off. "Sorry about the lights," he apologises, "the power's been out since yesterday and my landlord can't get anyone to come look at it until at _least_ tomorrow."

"Nah, I've had worse," Newt assures, "okay, so, which way is your bedroom...?"

Josh shoots him a look that Newt can't see properly in the darkness. "My bedroom...?"

"Yes, your bedroom," Newt says, slowly. Jesus, what is this guy thinking... "I mean, unless you'd rather do it out _here,_ though I gotta say, man, that will _not_ be comfortable, for _either_ of us."

"Oh," Josh says, "yeah, you're probably right. This way..."

Newt begins to undo the buttons on his shirt.

"Oh, I've never done a _nude_ ritual before," Josh says, catching sight of what he's doing, and Newt freezes.

" _Ritual?_ " he squeaks.

"Yeah, we usually do them clothed...I dunno, is that like, a regional thing?" Josh asks, tilting his head.

Newt tries not to freak the _fuck_ out and succeeds fairly well, all things considered. "I, uh, I just realised," he stammers, "I left my—my oven on, my flat could burn down any moment, I'm _so_ sorry, I really have to go now—"

"I thought you said you didn't bake—?"

He backs out of the room, leaving Josh confused, but not attempting to follow after him; grabs his boots and slides them on hurriedly, re-buttoning his shirt as he goes, and nearly runs out the door.

He pulls out his phone; fifteen missed calls, all from Hermann.

He hits _call back._

It only rings a few times before Hermann picks up. "Oh, thank god, Newton, you're alright—"

"Dude, I've been _dating a kaiju cultist!_ " Newt shouts.

There's a moment of silence. Then Hermann says, "I _know._ Why do you think I've been calling you for the last fifteen minutes—Tendo just finished the background check on Joshua Halter."

"I can't _believe_ I thought he was just another kaiju enthusiast," Newt groans, "ugh, I need something strong when I get back."

There's a pause, and then Hermann says, "I'll put the coffee on."

"Thanks," Newt sighs, "you're a lifesaver."

"Yes, I am," Hermann says, smugly, and hangs up.


	92. 92

**that which haunts your dreams**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "The last thing left in Pandora's box was hope.

Newt let it out long ago; there's no way this is ending in anything but tragedy, no matter what the hallucination of Hermann is insisting."

* * *

"It's alright, Newton," Hermann says; softly, hand hovering over his, "it's alright, we've got you now. You're not trapped anymore," so, so _gently,_ and this is something Newt's been waiting for.

"H—Hermann?" he asks, voice hoarse and cracking, "Hermann, is that—is that really you? How did you—?"

"Shh," Hermann says, and grabs his hand; staring into Newt's eyes, fiercely. "I did it, Newton, _we_ did it—we destroyed them, Newton. You're free now. Come with me."

His skin against Newt's, icy-cold, is a shock. "I—" he stumbles over the words; clogging in his throat, and he feels like he's _choking_ on them. "Please, Hermann—"

"It's _real,_ " Hermann says, jaw set; expression shuttered, but still, Newt can see pain there. "Come with me, love—"

It's that that catches; snags against Newt's mind like a torn nail on fabric; barely making any impact at the start, and then, eventually, tearing, tearing, _tearing;_ wears against his mind in but a few seconds, and he says, sharply, "Hermann, what did you _say?_ "

The other freezes. "Let's _go,_ Newton," he urges, eyes wild, now. "We _have_ to—"

" _Why?_ " Newt demands, "I thought you said you—"

And it all shatters like stained-glass; the colours seeping out of the room around him; out of Hermann, too, his skin turning pale, pale grey; and then it falls from three dimensional to flat—lines against lines, slipping through his fingers and crumple to the floor. The last to go—as if _mocking_ him—is Hermann's face; frozen for the last second, in worry (for _him) before it goes, too, unspooling before his eyes.

 _Silly little human,_ they laugh, the words echoing through the blank emptiness of his mind. _You don't_ really _think he'll save you, do you? After what you said to him?_

"He'll do it!" Newt shouts, defiantly, "he beat you once—he'll do it again. Hermann'll realise what's wrong—he's a genius!"

They laugh. _He won't,_ they say; conversationally, nearly. _After what you said?_ No _one would._

"That's—that's not true!" Newt protests, but it's— _softer,_ now; doubt creeping in because, because; it's _true;_ no one in their right mind _would._ "He will," he says; but it's more to himself, now, the words a hollow attempt at reassurance. "He will…right?" He _has_ to.

They laugh, again. _Humans,_ they say, _you cling so_ foolishly _to hope. Oh well—it'll just be more amusement for us when your false illusions finally shatter._

And then they're gone, leaving Newton trapped, alone, in his own mind; surrounded only by the white on white of this corner of his mind, and the gnawing fear that it's getting too late.

* * *

The cold press of the restraints on his wrists are new; as is the chair he's bound to. Usually, they make it a bit friendlier—Hermann finding him at the penthouse, or Hermann, early on, recognising he's spiralling, or Hermann, or—

Still, one thing remains the same: Hermann.

He paces the floor in front of Newt, not speaking; Newt takes the time to look around; take in the vista, as it were. Needless to say, it's not the nicest he's seen, what with the bindings on his wrists and ankles; the bloodied shirt sticking against his skin from sweat. Experimentally, he drags his tongue over his teeth; finds, for the first time, that they're still a _bit_ too sharp.

Usually, they at least afford him the illusion of normalcy; either they're getting bored, or getting cruel. Or both.

He raises his gaze to track the mathematician.

It's more realistic this time, he notes; the lines on Hermann's face are deeper, this time; his mouth set grimly; his eyes showing the wear of the years—Newt'd always teased him about age, but the truth is, the War wore on them all; added grey hairs and decades to all of them. He thinks, perhaps, it's a bit unrealistic that Hermann isn't recoiling in fear, but—oh well.

"They're gone, now," Hermann says; quietly.

He doesn't meet Newt's eyes; starts when Newt laughs, high and manic, trailing off into a hacking cough at the end. "Look, dude," he says, tiredly, "this is just a hallucination, I know, I know, so can we please just…get it over with? And stop tormenting me?"

This time, the mathematician _does_ meet his gaze; bewilderment. They're getting better at the emotions thing, he thinks, idly; usually, the faces are too… _slack._ "What do you mean?" he asks, "they've been driven from your mind, Newton—we saved the world again, remember?"

"Mhm," Newt hums, just for the sake of it; humouring him. "Yeah, sure. Look, man, this is kinda harsh, but, uh, you aren't fucking real. Sorry, not sorry. Guys, can we please cut the hallucination?" he shouts, aimed vaguely at the ceiling. "Go, I dunno, terrorise some interns if you want to get your kicks."

"Newton," Hermann snaps, " _what_ are you _talking_ about?"

Newt sighs. This sucks, honestly—usually, after Newt realises what's going on and calls out their bullshit, the Precursors drop the whole thing pretty quickly; it's only fun for them if Newt's not aware it isn't real. Slowly, he says, "Look, Hallucination Hermann—nope, that's too long, I'm calling you Halluci-mann—you're part of my hallucination. The Precursors—that's the crazy aliens who are possessing me, by the way, they're kinda hellbent on genocide—get their kicks out of torturing me with scenarios and situations of you…fixing things. Saving me."

He wishes he could wave his hands to add effect, but, oh, well; say la vie.

"I am _not_ a product of your imagination," Halluci-mann snaps, shifting his grip on his cane; he looks… _angry?_ "This is _very much_ real, Newton."

Newt lets his eyes flicker shut. If he falls asleep, it'll end sooner.

"Newton _Geiszler!_ " shouts the other, right up close; he must've moved; Newt can imagine the heat of his breath against his cheek. "Open your eyes— _now!_ " Anger and… _desperation?_ Yes, that's it.

"You're really getting good at the imitation thing," Newt says, tiredly; eyes still closed. He'd open them, but he can't bear to get another glimpse of this fake version of Hermann. It's…too much, honestly; to have this hope, this _possibility,_ and to know…to know that it's all just an illusion. "Just…let it end. _Please._ " It's quiet; a plea, nearly, even though he knows it won't do shit; they enjoy this too much.

He doesn't expect it when it happens; the sharp inhale of breath and then the weight of arms around him; as much of a hug as Hermann can manage with him strapped down like this. He draws in a shaky breath; his cheeks are…wet? "Oh, Newton," Hermann murmurs, his own voice heavy with emotion and pain. "Newton, darling, I promise, this is real. _I'm_ real, Newton." His own face is wet, the moisture spilling over onto Newt's shoulder.

 _Tears,_ Newt remembers. They're called _tears._

And then, against his will, warmth blossoms in his chest: hope. "It's alright, Newton," Hermann murmurs— _Hermann,_ his skin against Newt's; _real._

"…okay," Newt mutters, voice uneven. "Okay."

And he lets his head rest on the other's shoulder, finally, _finally_ … _real._


	93. 93

**murphy's law**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt hasn't seen Hermann in ages, but with an invitation to his parents' home in Germany, there's a chance to see him again—and they've been on good terms, so what could go wrong?"

* * *

Hermann, Newt knows, logically, is, indeed, German. It's a fact; the world is round, the seas were spilling forth deadly monsters for twelve years, Newt is still kinda crushing on his maybe-friend, Hermann Gottlieb, and Hermann is, somehow, German. Honestly, though, with Hermann's British accent and his… _Britishness_ (Briticisms? Britishisms? who knows), Newt refuses to believe Hermann's ever even _been_ to Germany, let alone that he went to _school_ there.

Like, yeah, _technically,_ Newt knows he was born and raised there, but like…cognitive dissonance, man, _seriously._ _Nothing_ about Hermann says 'German'—well, besides the emotional repression. He'll concede to that.

So when, a few years after the war, Hermann emails him an invitation to come keep him company at his parents' on an obligatory family visit, Newt—well, Newt takes one look at it and nearly falls over laughing. One of the interns sends him a slightly fearful look, which, _not fair,_ he's not _that_ bad. He laughs. Sometimes. Okay, basically _never,_ unless it's something bad, but that doesn't mean they should _fear_ him!

Anyway.

After his shock passes, he accepts enthusiastically on the spot— _nearly._

 _He's been ignoring you, though,_ points out the voice in his head, _should you really do this? Isn't it kind of unfair of him to not talk to you and then expect you to go see him at the drop of a hat?_

"Yeah, but…" he trails off. "I _miss_ him."

 _He doesn't miss_ you.

"I can't know that for sure," Newt shoots back. "Look, I'll go, and maybe he does want to reconnect, or maybe not, but it can't hurt, right?"

"Um, sir…?" says one of the interns, quailing when he turns to the kid.

" _What?_ " he snaps.

The kid gulps. "It's just, sir, you've…you've been talking to yourself for the past ten minutes," he says, and then quails a bit more. "I—I'll get back to work," he squeaks, scuttling away.

Jesus, were people _always_ this twitchy around him? He sighs and takes a sip of his coffee.

He does, though; miss Hermann, that is. It's not really either of their faults that they've drifted (hah, _drifted_ )—Newt's busy as fuck, and Hermann is, too, what with all that improvement of the algorithms in the Jaegers and simplifying Drift tech, and, well, it seems like there's just never any time. Whenever Newt sits down to draft an email, or, hell, even send a text, his mind goes… _blank._

And, of course, he can't just send Hermann a—a _meme,_ because he may have done that, years and years ago, but now, after… _after,_ it seems like words just… _fail,_ and honestly? Newt doesn't want to be anything but _perfect_ for Hermann.

It's not… _love,_ exactly—well, it is that, too, some, but Newt seems to have gone and taken on Hermann's perfectionist streak since.

Well, that and a lovely dose of traumatic childhood memories, but whatever, he's dealing.

Still, the thought of seeing Hermann again ignites some sort of manic energy in his blood; he's _definitely_ running a bit higher than he normally would for the rest of the day.

* * *

Newt spends the plane-ride nearly vibrating out of his seat, leg jittering so much that at one point he hits the tray, sending his cup of water spilling all over his pants, necessitating a rather embarrassing process of blotting at the wet spot on his lap with a few dozen paper towels.

The in-flight entertainment is mediocre, but it blocks out the sound of some poor lady's kid waking up at three in the morning and screaming its head off, so that's a win.

He gets off the flight, expecting—

Well, expecting _something._

Hermann meets him at the gate; he's pale, face drawn, and there are bags growing beneath his eyes; he squints in the harsh light of the airport, eyes hidden partially behind glasses. "Fuck, dude, you look like _shit,_ " Newt says, without thought.

"Newton," Hermann greets. He sounds horribly tired, and his voice is flat. "Thank you for your astute observation. Are you ready to go?"

"I—yeah, yeah, gimme a second," Newt says, and readjusts his grip on his suitcase. "Okay, let's go."

Hermann leads him out to the parking-lot and to a little red car. "Wait," Newt says, as he pops the trunk, "Herms, you're not going to _drive,_ are you—? 'Cause you're barely able to walk in a straight like—"

"I'm _fine,_ " Hermann snaps, and pulls the driver's door open. "Now, unless you've magically been bestowed with the knowledge of how to get to my— _parents'_ house, I suggest you allow _me_ to do the driving."

"Fine," Newt mutters. Has Hermann always been this _prickly?_ Maybe it's just his imagination, but he could've _sworn_ they were on better terms the last time they talked—well, _emailed._

Come to speak of it, when _was_ the last time they emailed? Newt's pretty sure that the last thing he wrote was a few months ago, but his sent mail shows that the last thing was a few weeks ago, and he doesn't have _any_ memory of writing it…

Oh, well; it must've been late at night, and he's just forgotten.

The drive goes by in silence; Hermann doesn't speak beyond short, simplistic answers to Newt's attempts at kindling up a conversation, and Newt runs out of ideas pretty soon.

It's… _awkward._ It _shouldn't_ be awkward, but for some reason, it is. It reminds him painfully of the first few years they worked together, after that disaster of a first meeting. He really hopes that whatever it is dissipates by tomorrow, because he doesn't really want to spent the next three days like _this._

* * *

The next day is strained; he barely sees Hermann.

The second day is an unmitigated disaster of epic proportions that sends Newt back to the flat in Shanghai early.

" _Mistletoe?_ " Hermann hisses, taking a step back, but it's too late; Newt's already stepped under the doorway—and, he realises, a moment later, when he looks up, right beneath a sprig of mistletoe. He takes a moment to appreciate that it's got white berries instead of the red that the ones he usually sees do, and then lets the dread creep in.

Hermann, meanwhile, has rounded on the nearest person—Newt himself. "Do you think this is _funny?_ " he demands; shaking, now slightly, teeth grit.

Newt raises his hands placatingly. "Dude, chill, I'm not laughing, I swear," he says. "We can just pretend it never happened and not do anything, since there's no one else around to know—" And of course, at that moment, Dietrich walks in.

He raises a brow at the two of them, and Hermann reddens—embarrassment, Newt knows. " _Fine,_ " he snaps.

"No, dude, look, you don't have to do it if it makes you uncomfortable—" Newt begins to protest, but Hermann's already crossed the gap between them, his mouth pressing against Newt's, hard an fast; angry. When he pulls back, a second later, his expression is blank, and he takes a step back; then another; drags his hand across his mouth. "There," he says—spits, more.

Newt cringes back, the words like a blow, shrinking in on himself. "I need—" he starts, some excuse spilling forth—he doesn't even know what, but right now, he just needs to get _out._

He packs his stuff all back up, hands trembling, barely seeing what's in front of him with how thickly the tears are falling, leaving splotches on the lenses of his glasses. _We told you,_ hisses the voice, _he's bad for you._

Yeah, no _shit,_ Sherlock, Newt thinks viciously—god, Hermann's _awful._ He was bad when they were younger, but apparently he's only soured with age. He probably knows Newt's feelings, and that's why he was so squeamish about it—which, you know, _fair,_ but it _hurts_ that he didn't just _talk_ to Newt, or, you know, do literally anything besides… _that._

Maybe when he gets back, Alice'll make him numb for a bit.

* * *

When Hermann kisses him again—(only the second time, and yet)—it's also sharp and hard; his teeth knock Newt's, the angle all off; to be fair, Newt's strapped upright in a chair that reminds him vaguely of dentists' offices as a kid, and it's a kiss of desperation and desperate joy more than it's meant to be romantic.

When he pulls back, though, this time, he remains close; hovering, there, right by Newt's side—finally, finally real.

"At least you weren't disgusted this time," Newt croaks, voice hoarse from all the shouting the Precursors have done in the past who knows how long before they were kicked out. "Do I look better or are you just glad the aliens that were using my body to bring about Apocalypse 2.0 are no longer kicking around?"

Hermann's eyes widen; involuntarily, Newt thinks; and he cracks the thinnest, most tired smile Newt's ever seen him give. " _Newton,_ " he admonishes, and then, softer, "I wasn't… _disgusted._ "

It's not a conversation they _should_ be having, not like this, but Newt's got the worst timing of anyone, and it's long overdue, so he says, "Uh huh, that's why you looked like you wanted to stab me," and wriggles his fingers.

"We _really_ shouldn't have this conversation until later," Hermann says, voicing Newt's own thoughts.

"Carpe diem, or whatever," Newt shoots back.

The look Hermann gives him is fondness mixed with irritation; tipping, now, Newt thinks, more towards _fondness._ "I wasn't _disgusted,_ " Hermann repeats, and then, gaze slipping to the ground, "I was merely… _confused._ I knew that we were no longer as close as we had been, but up until your last email…we at least seemed, still, to be _friends._ "

Newt frowns at him; the motion making him, a moment later, wince in pain, as it pulls at the dry and cracked skin of his lips, already splitting from Hermann's badly-executed kiss. " _I_ thought we were, too," he says, "and then I got down to your folks' place and you were super distant, with, like, no explanation? And then, well…" he trails off. "Also, I'm pretty sure my last email to you was the one where I enthusiastically accepted your invitation, so."

Hermann gives a sad smile. "It wasn't," he says. "It…it wasn't. And, looking back on it, I know it wasn't _you,_ truly, either, but at the time, I had no knowledge…no _idea_ what was going on."

"Hold on," Newt says, sharply, "are you saying that the Precursors _wrote you an email_ from me that was kind of shitty and that's why you were so distant and acted like I'd kicked your puppy when we got caught under the mistletoe? Because, uh, _what the hell?_ "

"Yes, well," Hermann says, "like I said, had I known any differently…regardless, I admit that my actions were rather unfair; I shouldn't've been avoiding you—I should've just talked to you about the contents of the email. I was, however, rather stressed, what with the sudden increase of Drift-bleed nightmares and work. I…" he pauses. "I'm not saying that those _excuse_ it in any way, but I hope you understand that I wasn't, necessarily, operating at my best."

"Oh." Newt runs his tongue over his teeth. "Wait, Drift-bleed nightmares? Oh, shit, uh," he laughs nervously; wishes he could run his hands through his hair. "That's…that's kinda my fault. I started Drifting with Alice, what…five? six? Months before that…come to think of it, that's when the voices in my head started getting worse…" he trails off.

Then, haltingly, he asks, "Um, what…what exactly did they say? In the email?"

Hermann hesitates. "I—perhaps it's best to wait," he suggests, "it's nothing— _bad,_ per se, but I know it would be upsetting to you—"

" _Please,_ " Newt says, "look, Hermann, I—I _need_ to know that it wasn't us—that it was them, that they're why we wound up here. Please?"

Hermann wavers for a second before he sighs. "Alright," he says, softly. "It…essentially, they spent the entirety of the email deriding my own feeling towards you, that you— _they_ had seen during the Drift, and ending with a few remarks of the more obscene variety as to the distaste y— _they_ felt for them. Needless to say," he adds, drily, "I was rather shocked, and, quite frankly, a bit _upset_ when you called me before your flight took off to ask when and where I was going to pick you up."

"… _oh,_ " Newt says, softly, after a moment, because. _Fuck._ "Oh, Hermann, I'm _so_ sorry, shit, that's—" he laughs a little, then; high and a bit hysterical, and says, emphatically, "Fuck. _Fuck._ " Tears—oh, right, tears, that's why his eyes are stinging. He blinks rapidly.

Hermann reaches out; hesitant; and puts his hand on Newt's cheek. "Newton," he says, firmly, "Newton, listen to me. I do _not_ blame you for that, not anymore. I promise—alright?"

After a few moments, Newt manages to choke, "Okay, yeah—okay. Fuck, though, Hermann, I—" he bites his lip. "I'm sorry," he says, again, and hates how hollow it sounds. "I—how can you even look at me anymore? I mean, I basically spat on your feelings, and then went on to attempt genocide."

" _That_ was not you," Hermann says; sharply. "Newton, you must understand—that was _not_ you, alright? And you _didn't_ 'spit on my feelings'; and _their_ plan didn't succeed. Newton— _Newt,_ " he says, and then pauses. "Newt, we may be cracked and broken, but superglue exists."

That makes Newt laugh. "Jesus," he says, "that's an awful metaphor."

"Yes, well," Hermann smiles, "I learnt from the best, after all."


	94. 94

**icarus; then, prometheus**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""Here, move your leg onto mine," Newt says, and shifts so Hermann can hike his aching leg up instead of laying on it. It does mean Hermann's practically chest-to-chest with Newt, close enough that he can hear the other's whistling breath—in, out, in, out—but that's nothing alarming; they've been closer before."

* * *

 _one_

They stand there; arm-in-arm; breathless, excited; it's the start of something new—and yet, still, it feels like coming home: the warmth of familiarity; Newt's skin burning hot through his shirt, muddied and torn a bit, smelling like an odd mix of chalk and stale circulated laboratory air and the exhilaration of the rush, before; the Drift.

"I saved you," Hermann doesn't say; because he doesn't know how to say it without wanting to cry; the idea teeters him on the edge of oblivion, the thought that Newt _could_ have died, then; twice, had Hermann not been there in the nick of time.

"I love you," he doesn't say; because at the time, standing there, he doesn't know how to voice it, yet; doesn't know if it's true, yet; if this weight blossoming beneath his ribs is love or hate or pride or something from Newton himself, spilt over between them; doesn't know if it matters.

"I can't stand," he says, instead, knee buckling, even as he leans into his cane and onto the biologist, and then, a moment later, "Newton, _you're_ going to fall over."

Newt's gaze snaps to his; floating up out of whatever plane of thought he's fallen into and back up to reality, and solidifying. "Oh," he says, "uh, right. Yeah, let's go sit down. Or lay down?" Hermann nods, and he says, decisively, "okay, then, lay down it is."

So; barely standing, they make it to the lab because it's closer and Newt says they can both fit on the futon just fine—which Hermann knows isn't true but he doesn't say it, not now—and then, stumblingly, lay down; the bright fluorescents of the lights burning through Hermann's lids, but not enough that he cares; the background scent of electric charge, chalkdust, and formaldehyde.

"Here, move your leg onto mine," Newt says, and shifts so Hermann can hike his aching leg up instead of laying on it. It does mean Hermann's practically chest-to-chest with Newt, close enough that he can hear the other's whistling breath—in, out, in, out—but that's nothing alarming; they've been closer before.

 _Closer;_ the weight of Newton's arm over his shoulders, pulling him in; tight.

 _Closer;_ minds melding in a sea of blue, a second shy of bereavement.

Closer; now; Newton's arm thrown across his torso; fingers splayed loosely; already drifted off to sleep, as haphazard asleep as he is awake, and somehow—this is _endearing,_ Hermann thinks, quietly in the back of his own mind; catalogues the freckles on the bridge of the other's nose, right up by his face.

He thinks, then, of the hours before; of finding Newton mere feet away from where they lay now in a tangle of limbs; bleeding; his head cracking against the pavement before Hermann gets to him; pulls him into his arms.

It reminds him, now, frighteningly, of things he'd rather it didn't—of things such as how close Newt was to Icarus; so close to the sun the wax of his fashioned wings melting—

 _Almost._

That's what he must take comfort in—the almost; that, _almost,_ Newton died, but he didn't; he's laying there next to Hermann; material and real and vibrantly alive, even asleep.

The rest can be sorted out in the morning—this confusing knot of emotion resting too heavy beneath his ribcage; giving a jolting shudder at the biologist's voice; his touch; his laugh.

For now, he is alive.

For now, that is enough.

* * *

 _two_

The hum at the back of his mind is loud; too loud; not just his own thoughts, now, but the fleeting impression of Newton's as well; excitement, exhilaration; fear. And behind that— _satisfaction,_ vicious, like some sort of primal instinct; the goal to succeed, to reproduce, greater than the value for life; the male angler fish, absorbed into the larger female, there, at the bottom of the sea, to continue to species.

The kaiju— _these_ kaiju, half-formed, around him, in test-tubes and tanks and special chemical mixtures glowing sickly green-yellow around him—are Newton's; his offspring; his progeny, the hours poured into his project to bring them to life leaving dark circles under his eyes and questions Hermann cannot— _could_ not—get him to answer.

The memory distorts; sound flooding back over him.

Now—God, _now_ —they are in his quarters. Newton, still pale and thin, _too_ thin, eyes bloodshot, lays, fully-clothed, in the bathtub. "I think I'm going to fall asleep," he murmurs, looking at Hermann through half-lidded eyes.

"Head back, please," Hermann instructs—gently—and squeezes out a dollop of shampoo. Newton complies, holding to the edges of the tub for support, and Hermann leans forward on the stool, the hand without shampoo carefully cupping water and wetting Newt's hair before he begins to scrub the shampoo into his scalp.

Newton's eyes flicker closed; he hums, softly, at the back of his throat; low, a purr, almost. "'S nice," he says, softly, after a moment.

Hermann adamantly does not think about the accommodations he was given while locked up, afterwards— _well-treated my_ arse, he thinks, bitterly; Newton may not have been physically harmed, but he's lost too much weight; clothes—the same ones he was wearing when Hermann found him—hanging loosely on his frame.

He dips his hand back into the water. "Is it too cold?" he asks.

"...no," Newt decides, after a moment; eyes opening; gaze flicking to Hermann's. "I..." he pauses, shoulders stiff beneath the water; tense. "Thank you," he says, finally.

Hermann, hand still in the water, pauses.

 _You nearly killed me,_ he doesn't say; because that is hardly reassuring, and he does not wish for Newton to blame himself; already, he carries too much weight on his shoulders—he doesn't need to carry any more for something that never caused any material harm, in the end.

 _I love you so much it scares me,_ he doesn't say; because that, too, isn't reassuring; and Hermann knows Newton would be crushed by that; wouldn't see the sentiment behind it, hearing only that Hermann _fears_ Newton _himself,_ which is not true.

"I'll get you a change of clothes," he says, instead and pulls his hand out of the water and retreats out of the bathroom; comes back with a loose shirt and sweatpants and a towel and waits for Newton to shower off and strip out of the wet articles of clothing before he hands him the towel; hums, absent-mindedly, a few bars of a song stuck in his head.

"My Chemical Romance?" Newt asks, with a raised brow.

Hermann shrugs. "Certain things carry over," he says, and doesn't flinch, though he nearly does. "Come to bed, Newton—it's late."

Newt looks at him, and then past him, and then back to him, again. "Okay," he says, and allows Hermann to pull the thick covers on the bed back for him; crawls beneath and waits, expectantly. Hermann follows a moment later.

They gravitate, eventually, towards the centre; that's how things work.

As Newton's breath evens out, his head tucked beneath Hermann's chin, Hermann tries not to let the images flash before his mind; of cloned kaiju, and Newton in a hospital gown; a cold bed and tear-tracks on cheeks.

Newton has always been larger than life, in some ways, he muses; always pushing forward; an unstoppable force.

And for that, he almost hurt himself; the modern Prometheus, doomed, not to eagles eating his liver, but rather constant distrust and a lifetime ban from his studies; his passion—almost.

Many things hinge on _almosts,_ it seems, but right now, Hermann's just glad that there _is_ an almost.

Things may not be good, now, but _almost_ is a place to start, at least.


	95. 95

**again, a little to the left, now**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Second time's the charm, or something like that."

* * *

"Dude," says Newt, hopped up on one of the rungs of Hermann's ladder, legs swinging. " _Dude,_ " he says, again, and relishes the glare that Hermann shoots him; irritation and exasperation, both there, in equal measures, "we're going to fucking die."

Hermann scowls at him and dots his i with a bit more force than necessary. "Yes, thank you for that lovely bit of fortune-telling, Newton," he snaps. "Now, please, get off of my ladder—"

"It's _not,_ " Newt says, "I don't—" he huffs. "I mean we're going to die eventually. Not... _that._ "

Hermann shoves his legs aside and climbs up to the rung bellow Newt. "Well, we're destined for nothing else, if the media is to be believed," he says, batting aside Newt's hand when the biologist reaches down to pluck at his hair. "Newton, _stop it._ "

"Fuck that," Newt says, "we're, like, humans—we've got free will and shit. I mean, have you seen Supernatural—?"

"Only _you_ would still watch that show," Hermann says, with a sniff, which, not fair, it's barely on season fifteen; nose wrinkling just _so,_ fuck, that's not _fair—_

"We have free will," Newt says, stubbornly, and finally gives into the other's push and shove, and climbs down. Hermann says nothing; Newt's preaching to the choir and he knows it, but, like...no one else talks to him, so. "Anyway," he says, "it's depressing when everyone acts like nothing we do can change the outcome."

Hermann sneezes.

"Bless you," Newt says, "you gotta stop inhaling all that chalk-dust, man..."

Hermann's hand, on the chalkboard, stills; he doesn't seem to have registered Newt's jibe; quietly— _too_ quietly—he says, "Perhaps they're right, Newton."

It takes a moment for Newt to realise what he means, but once he does, his temper flares. "Well then what the hell is this for?" he snaps.

The other's still, for a moment. "We all want to feel like we at least tried to...to save those we loved—those that we _love,_ " he says; something way, way to fucking... _something,_ there, in his voice. Newt frowns at it. "Dude," he says, "I swear, just yesterday you were harping on about how we were finally winning—what happened to that, man?"

"Oh," says Hermann, and then stops. When he begins again, his voice is wistful. "Yes...hope. I'd... _forgotten._ "

Newt stares at him; hard. "Okay, dude," he says, dubiously, "I mean, that makes no sense, but alright."

He goes back to his own side and his kaiju liver; but still, the oddity snags on his mind; sticking like burs in fur. For the rest of the day, too, Hermann seems...distant; mournful, almost, and his eyes take on a misty quality when he sees Newt, which is _definitely_ weird, to say the least, but when Newt asks about it, he just says something vague about recently having lost a good friend.

* * *

Five days without sleep is when it finally comes out; racoon-like black marks painted around Hermann's bloodshot eyes, and his hand shakes; Newt, too, can barely hold his own steady, but he's only been awake for three days, so he's at a bit of an advantage.

"It's not going to work," Hermann murmurs; spread on the futon, neck bent so he fits better.

"Hmm?" Newt hums, from his position on the floor.

"It's not going to work," Hermann says, again. "Oh, God—it's not going to work," he chokes, bolting up; and Newt, suddenly, gets the feeling that he isn't really aware of what's around him.

"Uh, hey, man," he says, propping up on his elbow, and Hermann freezes, staring like he's seen a ghost; trembles.

"You're dead," he says, hoarsely. "I saw—I saw it. You were dead—" His voice rises to a hysterical pitch. "It's not going to work—we're all going to die," he babbles, "it's not going to _work—_ "

"Hermann," Newt interrupts, "what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"I tried," Hermann says. "Oh, Newton—I tried so hard...but it must have failed. It's still happening like I remember. The triple event will still occur, and the bomb will still deflect. I thought..." he trails off. "I thought I could change history," he says; the fight all gone out of him, and his shoulders slump. "I thought I could save you," he says, finally; almost inaudible, and—

A few things happen.

One: Newt is no moron; neither, for that matter, is Hermann, and even in this state, Newt can put the pieces together.

Two: this has all happened before—or, rather, it has for Hermann.

Three: Hermann, genius that he is, has been attempting to change the future.

Hermann, spent, collapses—thankfully, right back onto the futon, feverishly bright eyes slipping shut, limbs askew.

Newt sits there for a moment.

This...can't possibly be true, can it? But no—all evidence is pointing to that; to predetermined futures where the kaiju win.

If he's right, though...perhaps—

Well, if he's right, Newt thinks—if he's right, he'll never shake his fist at Fate ever again. He definitely won't shout "Fuck you, I have free will!" at the ceiling anymore. Not if he's right.

And—shit, honestly, it's...yeah, the realisation that this means that he _doesn't_ have free will is hitting him, yeah, but—well, fuck, if he doesn't have free will, then he can at least _try_ his batshit idea; and, if it's not meant to be, the universe will stop him from going through with it.

He digs out Hermann's parka and lays it over him, returning to his own side of the lab, and begins to form a list of things he'll need to build a makeshift neural drift machine for a kaiju-human neural handshake.

* * *

"You're _alive,_ " is the first thing he hears; blood dripping, warm, down over his lip, the tone reverent, relieved, and baffled all in one.

"Yeah, I can feel it," Newt croaks.

Hermann's hand's on his shoulder; steadying, and he looks like he's just on the verge of freaking out, but he says, "This didn't happen last time."

"...last time...?" Newt says, brain fried, honestly; and then remembers. "Oh."

"Yes," says Hermann, thinly.

Newt, eye stinging, gives a weak smile. "I guess you managed to change things after all, huh?"

Hermann blinks rapidly and drags a wrist across his eyes. "Perhaps," he says, voice thick, and Newt offers another smile, a bit stronger, this time. "Perhaps...perhaps I did," Hermann says, and the hand on Newt's shoulder seems to grip like a it's a life-line and Hermann's drowning, and, to be frank?

That's...fine. That's more than fine.


	96. 96

**the clouds shall pass (the sun will shine again)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Hermann explains as he puts a few boxes of chalk into a packing box. "Per Marshal Hansen's orders, we need to get all of our items cleared out from the Shatterdome within the next two days, when the PPDC Council will declare the Shatterdome officially decommissioned."

"Damn," Newt whistles, "that was fast."

"Yes, well," Hermann gives a wry smile, "people tend to notice when a giant inter-dimensional portal they've been monitoring for a decade up and collapses.""

* * *

In the aftermath—

In the aftermath, he sleeps; too burnt out to care about the way his neck's bent, or the mud and blood on his skin and clothes; Hermann's presence heavy, both in his mind and by his side, the both of them in the medical bay.

For a few hours, as he sleeps, Newt dreams not of images but of emotion; possibility, not yet daring enough to put into thought. He dreams that somehow, when the dust settles, things will go back to... _normal._ Whatever that means anymore. Still—he is...content, in a way.

And then morning comes, light seeping insipidly through his eyelids; Newt groans.

"Good morning, Doctor Geiszler," says a voice, more cheerfully than should be legal. "You're good to go."

"Thanks," Newt mutters, and squints; the chair is empty, no trace of Hermann. Oh well—he's probably busy packing his stuff up, like Newt should be. He levers himself up; stands gingerly, and then lets out a sigh of relief when he doesn't get dizzy and there's no sign of blood—"Hey!" he says, indignantly, "where's my jacket?"

The nurse gives him a small smile. "Doctor Gottlieb took it with him," she says, "said something about its scent."

Newt grumbles. "Alright," he says, "I'll just be going, then," and ducks out down the hallway.

Hermann is, as a matter of fact, in the lab packing up his stuff; he's changed into a clean shirt and sweater, and his hair is fluffed; he must have showered recently. "Newton," he says, without looking up from his task, "I took the liberty of fetching you a change of clean cloths—yours reek."

"They do _not,_ " Newt protests, but he gladly takes the graphic-t and jeans and makes use of the decontamination shower as a makeshift shower.

Hermann does grace him with a scowl when he gets out. "Your quarters are just down the hall," he says.

Newt shrugs. "'S faster," he says. "So, what's the deal on the pack-up?"

Hermann explains as he puts a few boxes of chalk into a packing box. "Per Marshal Hansen's orders, we need to get all of our items cleared out from the Shatterdome within the next two days, when the PPDC Council will declare the Shatterdome officially decommissioned."

"Damn," Newt whistles, "that was fast."

"Yes, well," Hermann gives a wry smile, "people tend to notice when a giant inter-dimensional portal they've been monitoring for a decade up and collapses."

* * *

So: they pack up.

It happens.

Well—life, that is; Hermann gets an offer at one university, and Newt's basically begged by MIT to come back. They're halfway across the world from each other almost before Newt even realises it, their only contact once again through email.

He doesn't miss it, he tries to convince himself; why'd he miss it—Hermann screaming at him, throwing chalk at him, telling him off for stupid ideas...well, okay, that last one is probably a good reason, but come on, let a man live a little.

And—

"Welp," he says, flatly, staring at his ceiling in the little one-bed apartment, "fuck."

Because the thing is—he misses Hermann terribly.

So, because Newt, at heart, is a musician, he does what he does best: he throws on some clothes and goes to the nearest Walmart, buys a shitty fifty-dollar guitar, and pours every ounce of emotion into it for the next few hours, pausing intermittently to scribble down notes.

He's pretty sure the neighbours hate him now, but he falls asleep with a smile on his face, laptop open to Hermann's last email; something about joining a research team for some field-work, nothing terribly important, but there, at the bottom, in neat Times New Roman:

 _Yours,_

 _Hermann_

* * *

The euphoria from the night before shatters like a teacup on tile the next morning when he goes to Google something; because there, in his newsfeed, is an article that quickens his heart, jackrabbiting against his chest:

 _Ocean field expedition, including war hero Doctor Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, disappears without a trace during storm._

He goes the day in a daze; Hermann's gone— _gone._

Days drag into weeks and there's no news on progress with the search for the missing vessel. Newt's guitar—not the shitty Walmart one, but his actual guitar, finally unpacked in anticipation of more use—sits in the back of his closet, gathering dust; the sheets with the song he wrote for Hermann on them shoved at the bottom of his desk-drawer that he never uses.

Newt wonders if this is what losing someone feels like; you know they're gone, but they're still there, almost; somehow.

He hunts down Hermann's best friend who the other mentioned a few times, gives her a call, hoping—

 _Something._

The phone only rings a few times before it picks up. "Yeah?"

The voice is deep; Newt thinks fleetingly of playing in the woods when he was younger, Vanessa chasing after him as she laughs, voice deeper than his, kinky hair braided elaborately; a game to try and cheer her up for the kids at school who bully her for it; remembers telling her he thinks it sounds beautiful—no, remembers _Hermann_ telling her it's beautiful

He swallows. "Vanessa?" he says, hesitantly, "my name is Newt—Newton Geiszler. I was...I was wondering if you'd be willing to just..." he trails off. "Fuck," he says, and his voice trembles. "Sorry, I just—I miss him so goddamn _much._ "

There's a long silence, and then—"Newt?" says Vanessa, "oh, shit, like, _war hero_ Newt? _That_ Newt?"

"Yeah," Newt says, with a watery laugh. "I—I just..." he pauses.

"You need someone to talk to?" Vanessa fills in.

Newt nods. "Yeah," he says. "Um. If you don't...if you don't mind."

There's a shuffling of papers, and then Vanessa says, "Hang on a sec, lemme get you on speaker—I need to drive, but I can talk so long as I keep my eyes on the road."

"Thanks," Newt says, softly.

It takes a bit—because, apparently, Newt's not so great when he's been repressing his emotions (who would have guessed) but Vanessa is patient, and even though they don't know each other, she's more than willing to tell Newt about her own memories of Hermann in an attempt to comfort him.

"Thanks," Newt says, finally; his voice hoarse. "I should, uh, probably let you go—sorry it, um, took so long."

"Hey, don't worry," Vanessa says, "it's...I get it, okay?"

"I just..." he trails off. "I wish that I had told him more," he says, finally.

There's a pause. "Did you tell him you loved him?" Vanessa asks, softly.

"I—" Newt swallows; scrubs away tears. "He knew," he says, instead.

"But he deserved to hear it from you," Vanessa finishes, and there's understanding, there. "Newt..." she pauses. "Look, I don't know you, and I don't know what your relationship with Hermann was, exactly, but...don't blame yourself, yeah?" More quietly, she adds, "He wouldn't...he wouldn't want you to."

Newt's throat tightens; unable to speak, he merely nods, though the other can't see it.

* * *

"Doctor G!"

Newt slows to a walk to let the student catch up with him; it's one of his kids from Kaiju Biology, and the kid bounces over and shoves her phone at him. "Look!" she says, "they found him—they found Doctor Gottlieb! And he's alright!"

" _What?_ " Newt demands, and snatches the phone; skims the article, and feels faint. "Oh my god," he says, softly, and hands her back her phone; could cry, because, fuck—"Oh my god," he says, again; like a broken record.

When he gets back home, he digs out the guitar and the music, buys a plane ticket to England, sends an email to MIT that he'll be gone for the next few days, and hops on the plane a few hours later.

The hospital Hermann's in nearly refuses to let him in until Newt says something, in desperation, about Drift partners and he's Newton _fucking_ Geiszler, let me _see him._

It works, though, in the end; because a few minutes later, he's shown to Hermann's room.

The other's laying, fairly uninjured, though far too thin, beneath a hospital sheet, his eyes closed, but breath not even enough to be asleep. Newt pulls a chair over and drops his bag, pulls out his guitar. "Hey, Herms," he says, voice cracking. "How are ya?"

"Newton?" Hermann's eyes snap open. "Newton!" he exclaims, and his hand shoots out to grab Newt's, pulling him forward.

"Woah, buddy," Newt laughs, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm happy to see you too." _I missed you,_ he doesn't say.

"Newton," Hermann says, again, and his eyes land on the guitar. "What's that for?"

Newt grins through the tears. "I wrote you a song," he says, "and I figured I should play it now, 'cause I almost missed my chance last time, and I don't want you to die without having said I love you."

Hermann's hand slackens for a moment, and then he says, "Oh, Newton," and then stops, overcome.

 _Me too, bud,_ Newt thinks, and begins to strum the strings, watching Hermann's expression light up as he starts to sing softly.


	97. 97

**carve a little corner of the world, just for you and i**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "things are better, now; still, though, it's painful at times, to see Newton suffer—but Hermann wouldn't trade it for the world"

* * *

Newt gets better.

Hermann thinks, darkly, that when you've hit rock-bottom—in this case, possession by genocidal aliens—there isn't much way to go but up, unless you bring a shovel, which, thankfully, doesn't seem to have happened. So; he _is_ getting better.

But it is— _slow;_ painfully so, and Hermann can hardly bear to see the other's frustration; _give it time,_ he wants to say, _you've got time now, love,_ but he doesn't, because, well; Hermann has never been one to say what he feels, even now, so many years later.

"Come to dinner with me," he says, instead; one of the days when Newton's mood is particularly black; and Hermann can feel the impending breakdown; the blowout, fuse burning bright for a flashing second before Newt slumps like a marionette with its strings cut; eyes going dull. "You should get out of the apartment—fresh air is good for you."

"Hah," Newton says, flatly, "you just don't want me to have a fit and destroy your stuff."

"I don't want you to hurt _yourself,_ " Hermann counters, "which we both know is what will happen if you continue along this course." It's more earnest than he intends; the truth of it laid bare; he cannot allow Newton to run himself into the ground like this.

There's a pause, the only noise the tap of the biologist's nails against the counter. "Okay," he says, finally, "but no crowds."

"Of course," Hermann agrees; ignores the flash of blue-white in the corner of his vision, the taste of iron in his mouth. It would not do for Newton to be overwhelmed—there's a little hole-in-the-wall place not too far away that serves dumplings that, though likely not up to health code, is, to borrow Newt's phrasing, "to die for." "Do you want to put on something warmer?" he asks, instead of saying something too revealing, "it's getting late—there's a brisk breeze, too."

Newt hums but doesn't reply; he's already drifted off into his head, eyes glazed over, even as his gaze remains locked with Hermann's.

Hermann swallows thickly and fetches their coats, cane tight in his hand.

* * *

So; they sit at a table that's got smoke-stains and coffee-rings and an ashtray in the middle; Hermann orders for them, and as they wait, Newt leans back in his chair, tilts his head back; sighs.

His hair is wet, still—he took a shower a few hours ago, but it's thick enough that it's still wet at the roots. A gust of wind makes him shiver, and without thought, Hermann leans forward; adjusts the borrowed sweater and zips the biologist's jacket up. "You should've worn more," he scolds before he realises what he's just done and drops his hands.

"…yeah," Newt says, slowly, and plays with the fake fur of the hood. "Um—"

Jut then, their food arrives, and with more zeal than Hermann's seen from him in— _far too long,_ Newton grabs his single-use chopsticks and tries to split them apart; scowls when they split unevenly. "Great," he grumbles, "now I'm going to get splinters."

Hermann splits his own neatly and offers them up; doesn't read too much into the flash of emotion on the other's face before he takes them. "Thanks," Newton says, and stares intently at the table. Hermann gets himself another pair and pours vinegar over his potstickers; offers the bottle to Newt silently.

Silence, he thinks, as they eat, is the worst of it, perhaps; because Newton is not a silent person— _was_ not a silent person, and the silence only makes the wound, the loss, ache more; most of all, though, he aches for Newton; for the other to feel comfortable, because he knows, he knows the biologist doesn't.

Vinegar splashes as the other pours too fast; splatters onto his glasses and fingers, and Hermann tries not to hurt for him. "Here," he says, instead, and offers a napkin.

Newt gives a wan, tired smile; the first of the day, so far. "Thanks. Herms," he says, and sets to cleaning his fingers; rubs, much to Hermann's consternation, his glasses clean with the hem of his shirt; _some things, it seems, never change,_ Hermann thinks with exasperated fondness.

* * *

Hermann celebrates two years with a cake for Newton, store-bought and with garishly bright frosting, sticks two trick candles in it and watches fondly as the other's face lights up when, a moment after blowing them out, they flicker back, tiny flames leaping and dancing as Newt tries to extinguish them fully.

Finally, though, they're out, and Newton's eaten a few pieces of cake as Hermann picks at his own hesitantly, and then Newton bites his lip, reaches into his pocket and slowly withdraws a handheld recorder. "I…this is for you," he says, quietly, and doesn't quite meet Hermann's gaze.

Hermann takes it carefully. "It's, um," says Newt, and then pauses. "I—look, just…listen to it."

Hesitantly, Hermann clicks the button.

For a second, nothing; then, Newton's voice crackles through; tired, a bit, but determined. "Hermann," says the recording, "um, I…so, this is for you. I figured I'd record it, because I'm not…I'm not the best at saying what I feel, and I don't want to fuck it up, so…" he laughs, nervous; there's the sound of paper against paper, and then: "I thought…I thought, um, since we're almost at two years since, uh, the—oh, fuck it, I can't…" he pauses again; sighs.

"Fuck," he says, a little hysterically, "okay, these papers aren't—" whatever he says next is obscured by the sound of papers crumpling up, and when his voice comes through again, there's an edge of rawness, there. "I used to think—um, I used to think I'd get a…a rockstar ending, you know; save the world, get the guy…" he trails off with a strained, bitter laugh.

"But, uh—life is complicated, you know, so that didn't…that didn't really work out, uh, at first. But, um, I think? I think…maybe it has?" his voice goes high at the end; hesitant and questioning, and Hermann's eyes sting a bit. "When I was a kid," Newt continues, "when…when I was a kid, uh, I thought…I thought love was kind of, um, stupid, and, well," he laughs, "uh, that…yeah, that probably has a history of trauma behind it, but anyway, the point is, um, my dad told me—oh, when I was nine, maybe?—anyway, uh," he pauses again.

"So, um, I was…so, I don't…I don't remember what we were talking about, but he said, 'Newt, being in love is punk rock'," he laughs. "And—well, I was a kid, you know; I thought that was stupid, so I laughed, but now…" he trails off; takes a deep breath. "Now, I…I get it, Herms. I love you, and that…you know, the other day, I was talking to my dad, and I mentioned that, um, kind of offhand, and he said that again, and—well, I…it's different, now. I laugh along, but…but inside, I know it's true: being in love is totally punk rock."

He stops; lets out a shaky breath, and then: "Yeah. So, um, you already know this, but…Hermann Gottlieb, I love you; and it's totally punk rock."

The recording fades to static, and then cuts out, leaving Hermann and Newton in silence.

"Newton…" Hermann trails off, and the other doesn't meet his gaze, so he reaches out, places his hand over the biologist's. "Thank you," he says, softly, and Newt's gaze snaps to his; startled.

"What for?" he asks; puzzled.

"For trusting me," he says, "that…I know that wasn't easy for you. Thank you, Newton, I…" he draws in a breath. "I love you as well," he says, firmly, "and—and you're right; it _is_ punk rock."

Newton gives him a slightly-watery grin. "It is, isn't it?" he says, and squeezes Hermann's hand.


	98. 98

**evolution**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""I think I'm really different than who I was yesterday," Newt says; voice scratchy and cracking. Hermann hums. "Really different," Newt repeats. "Do you even know me—do I even know me?" His voice rises at the end, pitching into hysterical, and Hermann raises a hand; draws it through his hair.

or: they talk, afterwards"

* * *

It's like this: the day starts off fine; bit of screaming at (with) Hermann followed by a quick round of kaiju dissection and—

Oh, well; you know how it goes.

Newt drifts, Hermann saves him, and then he saves him again, oh, and they Drift, you know how it is. It goes like that sometimes, yeah—you wake up expecting one thing and then life gets in the way, you know.

Ah, the beauties of life.

Anyway.

It _starts_ fine is the point, and it _is_ fine for a bit, there, after; because, hey! They saved the fucking world you know. But—anyway, the point is.

Ah—

The point is, it, uh. It doesn't exactly translate to _now,_ which is Newt crouching, back pressed against the wall, knees dragged up to his chest and shoulders shaking, eyes pressed shut and mouth opened in a soundless scream as tears spill over his eyes.

"I'm fine," he chants, low, to himself. "I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine—" and the words lose meaning as he repeats them.

So.

Well, it's not great, given that Newt just had a lowkey panic attack started by the realisation that, actually, yeah, the world didn't end, and now he's got

\- trauma - yeah that kinda covers it, actually

Basically: Hermann was like, _uh, hey, man, it's over_ but in more eloquent, Hermann-y way, and then Newt was like— _yeah, well, fuck, you're right_ and then it sort of became _oh, fuck, you're right_ but in the sort of way of "guess the single thing that gave my life meaning is gone now".

And, well, it...kind of spiralled from there; Newt honestly doesn't really remember the interim too well, but he's sitting here now, screaming silently as he cries, which. Is probably not the best.

Vaguely, he remembers that there are meds he should've taken for this; promptly discards the thought.

Regardless, the result is still the same: emotion welling up against the confines of his skin and Newt's like—yeah. Not good.

Suddenly, without warning, he remembers being younger and reading some book—something scifi-fantasy (there were definitely dragons involved) and, like, he doesn't remember the plot, but—

With startling clarity, he remembers the closing line—just after the protagonist, the war he'd been fighting in finally over, returns to his lover:

"He lights a candle every night hoping the man I couldn't be comes home."

"Newton?" _Hermann._

 _Oh, fuck,_ he thinks. In reality, though, he just lets out a croak.

Hermann drops to his side. "Oh, Newton," he says, and then—and then his arms are around Newt, oh.

 _That's good,_ Newt thinks, and the panic recedes a bit with Hermann's skin contacting his own; breath evens out. Yeah, though, he's kinda low-key fucked up.

Hermann laughs. "A bit, perhaps," he murmurs, and, right, okay, he'd said that aloud.

"I think I'm really different than who I was yesterday," Newt says; voice scratchy and cracking. Hermann hums. "Really different," Newt repeats. "Do you even know me—do _I_ even know me?" His voice rises at the end, pitching into hysterical, and Hermann raises a hand; draws it through his hair.

"Change is inevitable," he says. "I've changed, too."

"...do you miss it?" Newt asks, finally. "The—certainty?" and doesn't even have to specify because they both know he means _certainty that your mind is your own._

"Yes," Hermann admits. "And...no."

"No?"

"I share it with you, Newton," Hermann says, softly. "How could I ever regret that?"

"Oh," says Newt, and thinks, _oh, okay._ This is comfortable. This is...good. "I...me too."

"I know," Hermann says, simply, and pauses his minstrations, thumb resting over Newt's temple. "I'm in your head, remember?"

 _Right._ "Right."

He doesn't—hmm. He doesn't...really know where to go from here; see: kaiju have been destroyed, and thus, his field of study is, uh, kind of useless beyond the theoretical. Hermann seems to sense it, running slender fingers soothingly through Newt's hair.

"I've always wanted to go to the beach," he says, instead of voicing the tangle of emotions that elicits.

"We can, now," Hermann replies. "I doubt anyone would try and stop us."

 _We,_ he says; _us,_ as if it's a given and Newt nearly points that out, and then doesn't.

"Okay," he says instead. "Geiszler-Gottlieb beach trip?"

"Terrible name," Hernann says; fondly.


	99. 99

**cinnamon rolls for the soul**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "snippets of Newt's life, post possession"

* * *

He only remembers it in bits and pieces—the before, that is; flowers and grass and sun and—and...fun. White walls and hysteria tend to be the most predominant memories.

Hermann comes to see him, sometimes; it might be regular, but honestly, Newt doesn't have a fuck. Give a fuck? Fucking know...he sighs, eyes cracking open. "I can hear you breathing," he says flatly.

Hermann—or, the blurry outline of him, because they never fucking let him wear glasses and didn't want to bother with LASIK, those assholes, anyway—pauses. "I brought you something," he says, sitting across from Newt, and slides a brown paper bag across the table.

Newt raises a brow. "What, they let you bring something in?"

"Just open it," Hermann snaps—not angry; exasperated, more.

Newt does.

It takes a moment for him to understand what it is, the scent befuddling him for longer than he'd care to admit. "I..." he stops, throat suddenly tight. "Thank you," he says, quietly, and picks it up, the cream cheese frosting getting his fingers sticky; takes a bite, relishing the burst of flavour.

Hermann watches him for a few moments with a wistful expression. "I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate it," he says, eventually, fidgeting with the head of his cane. "It's been...a long, long time."

 _Fuck,_ Newt thinks. "Yeah," he says, "it has. I still like cinnamon rolls, though." He wriggles his empty, sticky fingers, and licks one of them to try and savour every last bit. "Thanks, Herms."

"It's...my pleasure," Hermann says slowly, and gives a small, weak smile; genuine. Newt's own lips twist a bit—not a smile, not yet, but... _something._

* * *

It's...slow.

That's the worst part, he thinks—you take your meds and go to therapy and shit, but—still, he flinches at loud noises; expects it all to— _end,_ for them to pull the rug from beneath his feet with a laugh—Newt, so _naïve,_ as usual; shouldn't he know better?

It's not fun.

"You could leave," Newt tells him, one of the days when things are particularly bad; red letters inked on every wall of his mind, the steady drone of a chainsaw providing wnitenoise in his head.

"Leave?" Hermann asks—upset? Puzzled.

Newt makes a skittering motion with his hand, to tired to lift himself up. "Yeah—go, leave me; do something with your life."

Hermann looks at him for a long while. Finally, he says, "I _am._ "

"No you're not."

"Oh?" the mathematician raises a brow. " _Do_ explain."

"You could do whatever," Newt points out bluntly. "You could be the rockstar you deserve instead of sitting around waiting for me to catch up. Do what you want, you know."

Hermann stills; sits down next to him. "What exactly makes you think I'm not doing this because I want?"

Newt laughs. "Come on— _this?_ You don't want this, Herms."

"No," Hermann agrees, "I want to be here with you and help you."

And that's the end of the conversation, really—but Newt thinks about it late at night as he lays in bed; settled into the bed by Hermann, dosing already, he wonders if this is content.

It's.

 _Good._

* * *

"Teaching?" Hermann asks incredulously when Newt first proposes it.

Newt nods. "Yeah," he says, "high-school." Rubs the marks on his wrists; nervousness. Is it a... _wrong_ suggestion? Did he—

"—just a bit... _odd,_ " Hermann's saying, and Newt snaps back to focus. "Though I'm sure you'll be wonderful at it," Hermann continues, and reaches out to grasp Newt's hand. "You always did have a way with children."

"They're not— _children,_ " Newt protests; the only thing he can say around the blockage in his throat. "But...yeah. High-school."

"AP?" Hermann asks.

"Nah," Newt says, "I'm thinking about petitioning one of the high-schools to allow me to teach an elective course or two on kaiju biology."

Hermann smiles. "I'm sure you'll do great," he says.

"Well, yeah," Newt says, more confidently than he feels, the grin a bit weak. "I'm Newt fucking Geiszler, dude, I'm a rock-star."

* * *

That's how it starts.

K-bio, as his students refer to it as, is really fun to teach.

It's great! Really!

It leads to Newt, a teacher, getting caught by a freshman sneaking into the health services building, which, like, would be fine, but—well.

It's slightly embarrassing when said student drags him around the corner and smack into Hermann.

" _Newton?_ " Hermann gapes. "What on _earth—?_ "

"It's for science!" Newt exclaims.

"They're _condoms!_ " the freshman pipes up gleefully.

" _Science!_ " Newt repeats. "Look, dude, I needed a—"

Hermann holds up his hand; shakes his head. "Please, for the love of all things holy," he says, "Newton—shut _up._ "

Newt shuts up.

(It _was_ for science though—honest!)

* * *

During spring break, Hermann bakes.

"Whatcha makin'?" Newt asks, through a yawn, blinking blearily in the morning sun.

Hermann, sitting at the table with a bowl of dough and a rolling-pin, hums. "Cinnamon-rolls," he said, "I felt it an apt celebratory food for making it through to second semester. Can you get the butter out for me and melt it a bit?"

"Sure," says Newt, and opens the fridge; registers the rest of Hermann's words; smiles.

"You're the best," he says, after the rolls are in the oven, and Hermann smiles at him.

"I'm proud of us," Hermann says, and this time, when Newt tries to smile, it's more—not there, yet, quite, but he's _trying._

It's... _good._

The cinnamon rolls are good too.

"Dude," he says, "how the hell did you get this good?"

"Practice," Hermann says, primly, which, fuck, now Newt's imagining little-bitty Hermann with flour in his hair... _adorable._

"I burn water," he says.

Hermann laughs. "I'd say that's impossible, but, well," he grins, "it _is_ you we're talking about."

"Shut up and pass me the cream cheese frosting," Newt demands, cheeks hot. The brown sugar is sticky on his fingers; the sun streaming through the window and the scent of freshly mowed grass following it; outside, birds chirp intermittently as they eat, and Newt wonders what he'd've said about it before.

He'd have said it was impossible, probably; to be content, and he'd be wrong.

Life's alright. Not perfect, but that's just fine.


	100. 100

**still let everyone down**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Their disastrous first meeting is a large part of why Hermann panics when he wakes up alone in the medical bay."

* * *

"Good _bye,_ " Newton hisses at him, nostrils flaring.

"Newt—!"

"Shut _up,_ " Newt shouts, fists clenched, and stomps away.

This feels like a nightmare; it could be, for all intents and purposes, but he's not sleeping; he's standing wide awake, shirt soaked with freezing water and stuck to his skin, left alone in the hallway, Newton's footsteps retreating already; Hermann's illusions of a pleasant friendship shattered irreparably.

Then the footsteps stop; become louder; Hermann, hopeful, raises his head to see the biologist.

"Actually," he says, glaring at Hermann, hands shoved into his pockets, "I _do_ have something to say to you— _fuck_ you, Hermann Gottlieb," and with that, he spins on his heel and disappears down the hallway again.

Hermann sags, shoulders slumping; hand clenching his cane, he blinks rapidly, vision blurring; squares his jaw.

He will not cry. He will not—

He pulls his glasses off angrily and drags his hand across his eyes; lips trembling, pursed tight against the onslaught of emotion, and his teeth _ache._ He shoves his glasses back on, the nails of his free hand digging into his palm, the dim lighting suddenly too bright; the silence pressing in on him—

Five.

He unclenches his fist; forces his muscles to go lax, loosens his grip on his cane.

Walks.

He has other business to attend to.

* * *

The rest of the conference passes in a slurry of motion and sound that Hermann can barely take in, let alone process; suddenly unbearably fatigued.

At the end of it, he's left sitting in the hotel room, staring blankly at the wall, silent as emotions swirl like a hurricane within him, the pressure building rapidly, and all he can think is: _Newton._

"I'm sorry," he says to thin air, because he _has_ to, has to apologise but Newton cannot hear, but he has to anyway. "I didn't mean what I said…I—" he cuts himself off; an unexpected shudder wracking his frame, and he folds in on himself. "God, Newton, I'm so sorry—"

His eyes slip shut; cheeks wet already; he hasn't much time left.

He breathes; eyes flicker open.

He begins to pack his bags.

His phone buzzes, unexpected.

 _One missed call: Newton Geiszler._

His heart leaps into his throat, jackrabbiting, and he presses _call back,_ fingers shaky; it rings for a mere half-beat before it drops.

Hermann lets out an uneven breath.

Life goes on.

* * *

They confine him to the medical ward, years later; Newton, somehow, escapes before himself; despite subconjunctival haemorrhaging and two Drifts, the biologist is deemed more fit than Hermann.

He doesn't find out any of this until later.

"Newton?" he croaks, eyes squeezed tight; a headache pressing behind his eyes.

"Doctor Geiszler's gone." Hermann's eyes snap open, and he stares at the nurse; shocked.

"Excuse me—?" but he stops there; knows it's true; Newton's gone.

Tendo is the first person he runs into once he gets out; the man's hair wild, but his eyes shinning—both joy and sadness pained there. When he catches sight of Hermann, he frowns. "Why aren't you happy?" he asks. "We did it!"

"Newton's gone," Hermann says, numbly.

"Newton—"

"Newton's _gone,_ " Hermann repeats. "And that's his right, of course, I just—" he swallows. "I don't understand why it was a stranger who told me he had left," he confesses; quiet. "Why—" he stops; unable to form words.

Tendo laughs, suddenly; sending a flash of embarrassment through Hermann, and he draws himself up. "I—"

" _Left?_ " Tendo says, grinning slightly, "nah, brother he went downtown to buy you some tea!" he slaps Hermann's shoulder; too hard; he stumbles, gaping.

" _What?_ " he croaks.

"Yeah!" Tendo nods, smiling still. "He said he wanted to make you a cup for when you woke up."

"…oh," Hermann says. "Oh!" And he beams.

* * *

"Hey man," Newton greets him, and holds out a steaming mug of tea. "How're you holding up?"

"Quite well," Hermann replies, and relishes the warmth, both of the cup, and of the biologist, who sits down next to him, leaning into his tide. His gaze catches on Newton's eye, and the other notices; grins.

"Cool, right?" he asks, pulling his lower eyelid down to put the red ring on display. "You've got a matching one, too."

"…'cool' is not the adjective I would've used to describe it," Hermann says. "But, well, I suppose…"

"We saved the fucking world!" Newton completes, bumping Hermann's shoulder. The tea sloshes slightly, but it doesn't spill, so Hermann just scowls at the biologist, but it's without bite, and they both know it.

He sighs, lips turning up into a reluctant smile. "We did indeed, didn't we?"

"We did!" Newt shouts, and then, more quietly, "we did."

 _We did it,_ Hermann thinks; happily. His breathing falls in line with Newt's. For a moment, everything is serene; then—

"Hey, man," Newt says, "what if we clone a kaiju to keep as a pet—?"

"Newton!"


	101. 101

**come back to life**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "You'd never expect it, really—but Hermann is a total sucker for affection; he soaks it in like a sponge and gravitates towards it like a heat-seeking missile; it's kind of adorable, actually.

No longer chilly, Newt makes his way into the kitchen and takes a look through the fridge; there's the noodles, like he expected, and he pulls them out, as well as two eggs and some onions, and gets out a pan and the cooking oil; in no time, breakfast is frying away, sending up a delicious aroma.

Hands wrap around his waist. "It smells divine," Hermann says, resting his chin on Newt's shoulder."

* * *

Newton Geiszler is an unstoppable force; that's what Hermann always used to think, the thought trickling, fond, up the base of Newt's neck through the bond between them.

And, yes, it's true; Newt's an unstoppable force; hurtling ever-forward, without any thought as to the consequences—he's the human equivalent of doing a hundred on a ten-mile road; reckless to the extreme and living life both vicariously and dangerously, screeching through stopsigns and red lights, leaving everyone in the dust.

The thing is, though, that eventually, he crashes; because not even he can keep up with himself.

He crashes.

Bad.

Burns, fingers stained with a fuckton of blood that gives him nightmares, then, and now, still; bolting awake in the middle of the night, a scream caught in his throat; the memory of death cool and clean, analytical, almost, imprinted— _burned_ into his mind.

And then Hermann rolls over; mumbles something, half-unconscious, still, hand tugging at Newt's shirt, and Newt thinks; _oh, okay. I'm okay._

And that—that helps.

That helps a lot, actually; _Hermann_ helps a lot—honestly, Newt's not sure where he'd be without the grouchy mathematician. Dead, probably, or locked up, still. Newt wouldn't blame him, had he abandoned him.

But no—instead, for some unfathomable reason, Hermann stayed. And because of that, Newt gets this: early morning sunlight streaming in through the crack in the curtains, spilling over Hermann's form; warm against Newt's side beneath the covers, his arm wrapped around the smaller man.

"G'morning," Newt murmurs, soft, and turns a bit so he can to the other better, the sheets crinkling as he shifts.

"Hnn," Hermann hums, eyes cracking open to slits. "Good morning, dear." Involuntarily, his face splits with a yawn, messy hair getting even messier as he shifts to stretch a bit. Newt smiles.

"Hungry?" he asks, "we have…noodles, I think, leftover from last night; I can fry up some Polish noodles."

Hermann's nose crinkles as he smiles. "That sounds lovely," he says, "I'm quite peckish." He doesn't move to get up; instead, curls his arm to pull Newt closer, breath curling, hot, across the nape of Newt's neck and raising goosebumps there.

Newt breaths. _One, two._ "Dude," he says, "you gotta let me go first."

Hermann gives a sound that's halfway to a groan, and tightens him grip, nosing at Newt's neck. " _Newton…_ " he murmurs.

Newt smiles. "C'mon, man," he says, pushing at the other's arm. "You're gonna get grumpy if you don't eat." He prods at Hermann's fingers. Finally, the other lets go with a grumble, and Newt rolls out of bed; drags a hand through his hair and digs out something to wear that won't leave him freezing, ignoring Hermann's intermittent attempts to get him back into bed.

You'd never expect it, really—but Hermann is a total sucker for affection; he soaks it in like a sponge and gravitates towards it like a heat-seeking missile; it's kind of adorable, actually.

No longer chilly, Newt makes his way into the kitchen and takes a look through the fridge; there's the noodles, like he expected, and he pulls them out, as well as two eggs and some onions, and gets out a pan and the cooking oil; in no time, breakfast is frying away, sending up a delicious aroma.

Hands wrap around his waist. "It smells divine," Hermann says, resting his chin on Newt's shoulder.

Newt smiles; genuine, the corners of his mouth dimpling. "Glad to hear it," he replies. "Can you—?" But he doesn't even have to finish his sentence; Hermann's already in motion, getting out plates and forks, and cups; Newt snags one of them and pours Hermann's tea the way he likes it—medium dark, no sugar—and hands it to him.

"Thank you," Hermann says, lips canting up.

Newt serves them, and they sit and eat; the quiet between them thick but not uncomfortable, and Newt thinks it feels… _melancholy,_ almost; like he's intruding upon someone else's life; someone else's domesticity—stolen time; or misplaced time, or…something.

They have time, but Newt had not asked for it. His life may have been stolen, but like any stolen thing that is not recovered, Newt has learned to carry on without it. Eventually, the loss of the stolen thing is no longer felt as sharply. It throbs from time to time, and fades away again.

Hermann catches his gaze. "Something wrong?" he asks.

Newt blinks. "Oh, no, I just…" he trails off. "Thinking," he finally settles on.

"Oh?"

"Just…" Newt waves a hand. "About us…you and me, I mean."

"Yes, that _is_ what 'us' implies," Hermann says drily.

"Shut up," Newt says, without any bite. "Anyway, I was just…thinking. So many things have changed, you know? But…" he hesitates; worries his lip. "It feels like everything else has moved and I've stayed still," he admits quietly.

Hermann, across from him, stills; face settling into an unreadable expression; Newt fidgets, fingers drumming on the table; _shit,_ was that too much—

"Oh, Newton," Hermann says, and reaches out, hand covering Newt's, skin frigid to the touch; grounding. "I…" he trails off; not, Newt suddenly realises, because he doesn't know _what_ to respond with, but rather because he doesn't know how to translate his emotions into words; the feeling coiling beneath his sternum, tight.

Newt lets out a shaky breath, eyes slipping shut; savours Hermann's touch, his thumb rubbing Newt's wrist. "…thanks," he mutters.

"You're not," Hermann says, suddenly. "Unchanged, I mean," he clarifies. "You've…you've changed quite a lot, Newton—just…not at the same time as everyone else. And…that's hard, I know, love."

"Yeah," Newt croaks, "yeah, it…it kind of is."

"But," Hermann continues, "I…I'm here for you. If—if you need it, I mean. If you…if you want it."

"Thanks," Newt manages, through the tightness in his throat, and smiles weakly through wet eyes. "It—it means a lot."

"Of course," Hermann replies, softly.

The rest of the day seems to pass more slowly, but honestly, Newt doesn't mind. He's got Hermann, and they've got this, together, and…that's good.


	102. 102

**eye of the storm**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "yes, the world's going to hell, but humans are still human, and, in moments of peace, prone to shenanigans"

* * *

One would think that working to stall the end of the world by the jaws of giant aliens coming out of the Pacific would be a fairly stressful, eventful job, and generally one would be quite correct; Hermann spends much of his time frantically calculating equations and predictions in an attempt to put off the inevitable for just a bit longer.

Other times, though—times like these, things slow; a lull in kaiju attacks leads to the shatterdome falling quiet as its inhabitants wait with baited breath for the next one—a sort of nervous tension descending. Usually, it leads to tensions running high—understandably, everyone is a tad bit on edge; and who _wouldn't_ be?

Occasionally, it leads to something else: tired and running on fumes, the people of the Hong Kong shatterdome get a bit… _out of hand._

Case in point: one Newton Geiszler, of too many PhDs, and, despite all conflicts, both Hermann's labmate and, though he would never admit it, dearest, closest friend.

Currently, he's babbling away some rubbish about kaiju skin lice into his handheld recorder, seeming, for all the world, to be functioning the same as he does all other days—but Hermann can sense, just beneath the facade, the telltale hum of a manic-depressive episode; Newton needs constant stimulation, and it's been months since he's had any new samples.

"Hey, Herms," he calls, suddenly, "wanna go out?"

"Do I _what?_ " Hermann chokes, and nearly topples off of his ladder, sleeve wiping away a few lines of writing (nothing important, thankfully).

"Out," Newton repeats, "you know, for like, a walk? A breath of fresh air? What did you _think_ I meant?"

"…nothing," Hermann mutters. "Yes—perhaps that would be a good idea." _You look ready to die of boredom,_ he doesn't say; let Newton think they're doing this for a breath of fresh air, rather than because Hermann is _worried_ for him and thinks it might provide a distraction.

Newton beams. "Great! Meet me in LOCCENT in ten."

* * *

In hindsight, he should've seen it coming; at the time, though, he'd walked into LOCCENT to find Newton standing by Tendo's side, wearing that terrible coat of his (that Hermann may or may not appreciate just a _bit_ more than he lets on, but if he _does,_ no one will ever know).

"Her_-mann,_" greets Tendo, flashing an easy grin. "Heard you guys were going out to town for a bit—mind if I tag along?"

"Er," Hermann says, and looks to Newt, who nods enthusiastically. "Yes, alright—"

And that's as far as he gets, because there's a loud commotion, and then heavy Russian cussing. Tendo winces. "Sasha and Aleksis' cat's been running around in here and they keep trying to get her," he explains apologetically.

Hermann raises a brow but doesn't comment. "You're not wearing a jacket," he says instead, "it's _rather_ cold outside."

Tendo grins. "Yeah, I know—Raleigh's going to lend me his; it's nice and thick; he should be here in—ah!" he exclaims, "there he is!"

Beckett appears by their sides a moment later, lips thin, and hands the J-tech chief a thick winter coat. "Tendo," he says, "what the heck is a _cat_ doing in LOCCENT? Actually, nevermind," he says, holding up a hand, "I don't want to know. Uh—can I come with?"

"Yes, why don't you invite the entire circus, too," Hermann mutters sarcastically, and then wheezes when Newton jabs him in the ribs, grips his cane as he bends over.

"Be _nice,_ " the biologist chastises, and turns to the ranger. "Sure, man." That settled, they soon set out.

It ends…interestingly.

Well—it ends interestingly for _some;_ Tendo and Beckett get into a bit of a scuffle that leads to a bit of a misunderstanding, and, well, everything spirals from there; ends with Newton and him trailing after a police car in a taxi to the police station to explain that, no, Tendo and Beckett were _not_ trying to kidnap a child.

Eventually, though, it gets sorted out; Tendo, apologising over his shoulder, bundles a traumatised Beckett into a black cab, leaving the physicist and the biologist alone.

"Well that was…eventful," Newton says, after the cab disappears into traffic.

" _Quite,_ " Hermann agrees.

They stand there, for a moment, bathed in the neons, and then Newton clears his throat. "Uh…"

"Yes?" Hermann asks, and then, "if it has _anything_ to do with kaiju, I swear—"

"It doesn't!" Newton exclaims. "I was—ugh," he groans, "why is this so fucking _hard?_ Look, man, I think you're chill, and I'd like to go out with you."

"We just _did,_ " Hermann says, ignoring the implications, because there is no _way_ that _that_ is what Newton means; doesn't want to assume anything and then have the reality hit him square in the jaw and leave a bright bruise on his heart; couldn't bear it.

" _Out_ out," Newt snaps, "like, date out. There, I said it." Hermann gapes at him for a moment. "What?" Newton says, "is it—okay, this is, uh, probably not the best time, but, like, Herms, man, I'm highkey into you."

"You're _what?_ " Hermann says, and feels a bit like a broken record; his mind seems stalled.

"Yeah, man," Newt says, "I'm kinda surprised you didn't know, actually, since, like, everyone _else_ seems to."

"No," Hermann says, a tad bit weakly, "I did _not_ know."

The silence stretches, and then Newton, voice high, says, "So, like, not to rush you, but—"

"I'd love it," Hermann cuts in, and inadvertently grins.

"Oh," Newton says, and beams back, "oh, cool."


	103. 103

**dream a little dream of me**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
** **Summary:** "" _Newton_ ," Hermann says, again, and moves towards him.

The other flinches. "I'm fine," he yells, "just—give me a moment, alright? I'm fine. I'm _fine_ , okay?""

* * *

 _one_

He's dreaming again; standing on the edge of the precipice, surrounded by the darkness of the void, the ground beneath him crumbles away mere feet ahead of him; a chasm looming down, down, _down._

A rumble; he starts, hand coming up to clutch at— _something,_ only he doesn't know what; stops when he catches sight of the sickly blue veins pulsing beneath his skin.

For a moment, he hangs; the darkness eating away at the ground before him.

Silence.

Then he shudders; silent, still, unable to make a single sound; brittle skin flaking and breaking, revealing— _nothing,_ nothing but a black, colourless void; full of space—

And _empty._

Silent tears spill down his cheeks; rage and terror building up in his chest like a pressure-cooker without release, and he cannot scream; can only clutch at his wrist in mute horror, his gaze flicking down to catch sight of his chest.

It begins anew; his ribcage folds in on itself, crumbling like so much dry sand, and he collapses on himself; falls, falls, _falls—_

 _two_

He cannot focus; the writing in front of his eyes drifts; shifts, flowing, and he cannot stop thinking in musical chords, the phantom feel of metal wires coiled beneath his skin, his fingers; the taste of loss, bitter.

He raises his head.

Across the laboratory, Newton sits on his stool, no longer working on an experiment; a guitar rests in his lap; one hand loosely holding the neck, he gazes listlessly into the distance; silent, too-thin frame almost gaunt in the oversized shirt and pants he's wearing.

Silent.

Hermann can't feel a thing; his ribcage is tight, constricting his lungs; burning, he rips his gaze away; swallows and attempts to speak; fails.

Remains silent.

Across the room, Newton's gaze refocuses; he blinks, shakes his head; casts a look at the instrument in his lap and scoffs. "This is shit," he says. His voice is even, unwavering. He tosses the guitar carelessly aside and pulls on another pair of latex gloves with a _snap._

Hermann forces himself to focus on his work.

 _three_

"Newton?" he asks, one day, when he catches sight of the other; standing tense, he looks as if he's about to break, and Hermann's heart aches. "Are you alright?"

"I'm— _fine,_ " Newton hisses, but he doesn't move; his hand grips the scalpel tightly, and his eyes are wide; slightly glazed, he barely seems to register his surroundings. His breath whistles, rapid: one two three four—

" _Newton,_ " Hermann says, again, and moves towards him.

The other flinches. "I'm _fine,_ " he yells, "just—give me a moment, alright? I'm fine. I'm _fine,_ okay?"

Hermann squares his jaw. "You obviously are _not,_ " he says, "Newton, please, just let me help—"

The scalpel clatters to the floor; Newt crumples, catches himself on the edge of the table, knuckles gripping, white, and his lips tremble, face pale. "Just _leave it,_ " he snaps, "I'm _fine,_ alright?"

 _You're_ not, Hermann doesn't say; bites his tongue, because saying it will only make things worse and he _knows_ it. Instead, he says, voice trembling the slightest bit, "My door is always open if you need anything, Newton."

Newton doesn't reply; refuses to meet his gaze, and Hermann swallows thickly; returns to his work.

 _four_

He's crumbling—

 _Silence._

His hands shake; the ground beneath him falls away, blue-black-electric-sharp, and he screams; silent; bones crumble, turn to dust; blow away in a silent wind.

Scatter.

His mind fragments.

Who is he? Who was he? Is he anyone, even, anymore? Is there any of him left at all? Or has it all been consumed—what is him and what isn't? Is it all just emptiness?

His skin cracks; invisible blood pouring out from non-existent wounds, and he burns, burns, _burns,_ inside and out.

Around him, people move; the noise muted, and they cannot hear him; cannot hear or see his pain, unaware of the man standing in the crowd, falling to pieces.

Wind whistles through the holes; the only sound, frigid and stinging, and he almost weeps.

Is it him? Is it something else?

Is anything left of him?

Maybe there wasn't any of him to start with anyway.

 _five_

Newton is sick.

Hermann can hear him from across the lab; every so often, he pauses his dictating into his handheld recorder to give a violent, shuddery, rasping cough, wheezing afterwards as he struggles to breathe.

Damn it, he can't—

He's by Newt's side in a blink; ingnoring the twinge of pain at moving too fast, he grips his cane tighter. "Newton," he says, "please, you're _not alright._ "

"I'm fine," Newton says, weakly, but his skin is pallid, and when Hermann reaches out, it's clammy to the touch.

"Please," Hermann says— _begs,_ "Newton, I cannot watch you run yourself into the ground any longer. Lay down and rest."

"I can't—" Newt's voice cracks. "I can't," he says, again, more quietly, and Hermann's hand is still on his forehead; he sways slightly, leaning into the touch, eyes fluttering. "Hermann, I can't…I need to get this done."

"You _cannot!_ " Hermann exclaims, "Newton, do not pretend; we both know that you're having _panic-attacks_ when you try and—"

Newton gives a hacking cough, doubling over, and slips, letting out a cry as he hits the ground.

"Newton!" Hermann falls to the ground by his side; before his eyes, images from over a decade ago flash: Newton, seizing on the ground, bloodied, oh, _God—_

"'M fine," Newton chokes, head falling onto Hermann's shoulder limply.

"You're _not,_ " Hermann says.

 _six_

They lay in bed together; Newton curled against Hermann's side, breath shallow as he sleeps. Hermann stares at the wall; the heat of the blanket and Newton both against him—

There's nothing of him left, not anymore—

By his side, Newton gasps awake, eyes darting wildly, and he grasps at Hermann's shoulders desperately. "There's nothing," he says, brokenly, "Hermann, there's nothing—"

"Shh," Hermann murmurs, enveloping him in his arms, "shh, Newton, it's alright…"

"No it's not," Newton whispers, voice choked, "Hermann, it's not me anymore. I can't—I can't even do my fucking _work_ without freaking out—Hermann, I'm not—there's nothing _left._ They took it _all._ "

"You're wrong," Hermann says, fiercely, "you're _wrong,_ Newton; you're not who you were before, but that's just fine, alright? I promise you, Newton, it's _alright._ "

"But what if it happens again?" Newt's words tumble out, desperate and scared, and Hermann's heart aches. "What if—"

"You _won't,_ " Hermann says. "Not now, Newton, and not ever. None of us can go back to who we were, but we _can_ become people who no longer fall into our past mistakes—you're wiser, now, Newton, and you will _become_ wiser as you grow as a person."

There's a beat, and then, quietly, Newton says, "…you're right."

"I often am," Hermann says, softly, and Newton gives a wet chuckle and buries his face into Hermann's neck.


	104. 104

**little things**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Female Newton Geiszler/Female Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Hermann's hair is the subject of much frustration

or: Hermann Gottlieb, as told through the medium of haircuts, both had and not had."

* * *

( _one_ )

The light of the lamps around her seem to be glaring; the hairdresser's shears glint in their light, cold against Hermann's scalp—not cutting any hair, just yet; rather, measuring. "How do you want it, hun?" the hairdresser asks, pulling out her combs.

Hermann breathes. "Short," she says, "no bangs. Like..." words flee her grasp; she knows what she wants but not _exactly_ —just that she doesn't want it _long_ anymore. "Just...make it short," she settles on.

"Can do," the hairdresser says, "so, like, bob-length?"

"I..." _no,_ she means, but it lodges in her throat; she nods, mutely.

The scissors glint, again, before they begin to cut, snipping off chunks; sending long, thick clumps of brown hair to the ground, and bits, somehow, beneath the collar of the apron she's put on; irritating her skin. Hermann tries not to move too much.

"Hmm," the hairdresser says, "you know, it's a pity you're cutting it so short—most people would die to have hair as thick and healthy as yours."

I know, Hermann doesn't say; tired. I know, but I want this anyway. Because, for more than two decades, she's been uncomfortably aware of how much the hair she has is not, truly, hers—it's her mother's, her father's; strangers' to comment on, and classmates' to envy; lovers' to play with and tease, but never, never, _never_ hers. "I wanted a change," she says, instead; nonconfrontational.

"Pity," the hairdresser says, again, and her shears go _snip, snip, snip,_ right bellow Hermann's ear—too long, still, she knows, but can't seem to say.

When it's over, and the hairdresser hands her a mirror and asks how she likes it, she doesn't say, _I still hate it. I wish I could chop it all off;_ says, instead, "It's very well styled, thank you."

The hairdresser beams at her.

( _two_ )

The bob-cut grows out before she has time to deal with it beyond washing; leaves her, again, miserable in the bathroom of her little apartment, hair wet, a gaunt, unfamiliar face framed by too-long brown hair staring back at her in the mirror, and a sting in her palms she realises is from her nails cutting through the skin.

Red drips from her hands and onto the floor, and vaguely, she's glad it's tile—that'll be easier to clean.

The hair seems to weigh a ton—falls just above her shoulders, and suddenly, she's ten again, wanting to wear trousers and run and play on the monkey bars, and her mother's telling her, _No, Hermione,_ and brushing at her hair, too hard, hard enough that it brings tears to her eyes, and then zipping up her dress. _You don't want to ruin all that hard work, now, do you?_

Her teeth grind; hard; and tears come again to her eyes. "Stop, damnit," she hisses, and scrubs at her eyes, leaving behind red streaks of blood from little crescent wounds.

The cold of the water and soap, shocking, at least drags her out of the downward spiral; brings her back to firm, steady, rational ground. She searches for a hairband, pulling the hair into a short pony-tail, and then pulls out a double comb, the mesh between pressing the hair against her head enough that it almost doesn't seem to be there.

She breathes a sigh; relief.

The soap stings her hands, and then, finally, the water runs clear instead of rose-pink.

Distantly, she considers her hair again; it needs to be cut, yes, but she doesn't have the _time_ to try and book and appointment for it, and the hairdressers always make it longer than she wants.

She pulls on a loose button-up and sighs; life stops for no one, and she has classes to teach and a paper of her own to work on.

( _three_ )

It's the war; kaiju rising from the oceans to devastate their cities, and yet, somehow, though Hermann is the one working on the Jaegers, on the predictive model, on _stopping_ them, it all feels so _small._

The hair that's grown too long, out past her shoulders and now, halfway to her lower back—it's war, one can hardly afford time to find a hairdresser—does _not_ feel small. It feels, with every breath, every step, every scratch of chalk on black board, _heavy;_ painful.

Beyond that, it's a _nuisance;_ the strands get in her way—when she eats, when she speaks, when she _works;_ and the upkeep is nightmarish—it takes, during the cold season, or the damp season, depending on where she's stationed, up to four days to dry fully.

And, oh, god—the _memories._

Hermann's childhood was hardly pleasant, and the growing length of her hair is a painful reminder of some of the worst of it.

She envies, so dearly, Geiszler, who takes a pair of scissors to her own hair more than cheerfully after a lab accident; for, no matter how much she wishes otherwise, Hermann herself is too afraid—too _cowardly_ —to do the same with her own, no matter how _relieving_ it would be.

She longs for the hair to be short enough that she can feel the breeze on the nape of her neck; drag her fingers through her hair, and, for once, not leave a tangled mess in her wake.

But—she is not brave.

Not now.

So she purses her lips and pulls it back into a tight bun—tight enough that it pulls at her scalp, painful; and goes on with her day, trying to combat a seemingly unstoppable force, though she's no immovable object.

( _four_ )

Summer—dry season—is the worst, nearly; for while the cool dampness of the wet season means her hair doesn't _dry,_ at least she can wrap up in so many more layers and keep warm, regardless of how much head is being lost from the wet hair against her skin.

No—dry season means sweating; sweating so much she gets migraines, worsened by the weight of her hair, thick as it is, sticking, in the front, to her sweat-slicked forehead. She seems to be aching all over—not just her leg, no, but down to the nerves and marrow of ever inch of her body, whether she stands or sits or lays down.

"Whoa, man, you look... _bad,_ " Geiszler— _Newton,_ now, comments; concern in her tone; a mug of coffee in her hand. "Do you need something?"

"No, I'm fine," Hermann mutters; meaning it to be waspish, but coming up, instead, with lethargy; drags a hand across her forehead, pulling aside the hair that's fallen forward and stuck there.

Newton frowns at her. "Gimme a few," she says, and retreats fully back to her own side. When she gets back, it's with an ice-pack. "Here," she says, "if you won't cut your hair, you should at least keep cool—and hydrate, too, alright, dude?"

Hermann breathes in slowly; wishes, more, again, that she _could_ bring herself to make the leap and cut it off; says, instead, "I don't need your concern, Newton, I'm just fine." But she takes the ice-pack anyway, and the towel the biologist offers, the cool of ice through cloth against the nape of her neck a sweet relief.

( _five_ )

The beat of her heart with Newton's, simultaneous, is like the beat of a drum: one-two, one-two, one-two; the sound of life, if one's poetic.

There's blood on her and on Newton and some of it is hers and some of it's the biologist's and, honestly, right now, Hermann doesn't care; smile too wide, painfully so, and she throws her arm over Newt's shoulders and pulls her close, shifting her cane so as to take advantage of the strange pseudo-intimacy of the euphoric moment.

Newton, against her, clings back; almost too quiet to be heard over the roar of those around them, she says, once they've steadied, "Hey, I want to do something for you," and tugs Hermann out of LOCCENT and down the abandoned hallways.

They finally to where she's leading Hermann—a small, empty room; an office chair, two pairs of shears, a razor, some combs, a towel, and a hair-dryer. "I thought I'd give you a haircut," Newt explains. "I mean, if you want—I've been, um, planning it for a while, but after the Drift, I..." she trails off; there's no need for words.

The gesture brings tears to Hermann's eyes—not pain, this time; simply, she is overwhelmed by emotion. "Thank you," she manages, and sits in the chair.

Newt's smile, only moments earlier, nervous, transforms into a blinding, thousand-watt thing of beauty. "Right," she says, "hang tight, there, Herms, I'll get you all fixed up..."

It turns out messy; uneven, a bit, but the back is short, _short,_ the razor doing its work like it's meant, and there's a pile of dark brown locks on the ground, and when Hermann catches sight of her reflection, the top less than four inches at the longest, she smiles so hard it hurts, even though the skin on of her neck and shoulders itches where it's being poked by little slivers of hair.

"Thank you," she says, again; softer, this time, and Newt shrugs.

"Hey, anytime," she replies, and, when Hermann takes the hand she offers to help her up, she squeezes it—tight and reassuring.


	105. 105

**books are just words, but they're important still**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:**

""I missed this, you know," Newton says, after a moment. "Just…existing together, you know? It's…nice."

"Yes," Hermann agrees.

"I'm hungry," Newton adds, and Hermann laughs. "What! I haven't had proper food in _ages._ The bastards were all about _healthy_ foods, which was, like, a _fuckton_ of veggie protein smoothies. And crossfit…ugh. I may look toned, but at what _cost?_ "

"There's cereal in the cupboard, and ingredients for sandwiches in the fridge," Hermann replies, "you can help yourself.""

* * *

Hermann greets the guard with a nod; neither of them speak—Hermann, mostly because he's not sure he _can_ without breaking down then and there. His grip on his cane is carefully lax; there are marks, though, from where his nails have bitten into his palm, hidden, now, by the way he holds his cane.

With a soft buzz, the door swings open.

He takes a steadying breath.

Newton sits, still, in his chair; unmoving; then, at the sound of Hermann's footsteps, he raises his head. "Oh," he says, " _you._ " Disappointment. It's not Newton. He doesn't sit down in the chair across from the other.

Hermann closes his eyes for a moment; combatting the tears that threaten. "Newton," he greets, ignoring the disbelieving sneer that curls at the other's lips. "Have they been treating you well?"

"We're going to kill you all," say the Precursors; conversationally. Hermann ignores it.

"I hope the blankets are thick enough," he says, "I know you get cold at night. And…" he hesitates; feeling, suddenly, ridiculous. "I brought a book—"

" _Stop it!_ " they shout, "why won't you _react?_ He's _gone,_ you idiot! It's just _us_ in here—you're _never getting him back!_ " The restraints tighten as they lean forward, straining, lips bared to reveal teeth, and Hermann winces; the metal's biting into Newton's skin.

"Doctor Gottlieb?" The intercom crackles. "Do you want to get out of there?"

Hermann doesn't take his eyes off the other's figure. "No, it's quite alright," he reassures.

"Okay, then." The voice is dubious; Hermann wishes it weren't; what harm can come to him when they've restrained the other like a common animal?

He pinches the bridge of his nose; pulls out a thin book. "I found your copy of _Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator,_ " he says, and for a moment—

There's a pause; something sparks in the other's eyes before dimming. "Oh, a _book,_ " they sneer. "How _quaint._ "

Hermann sits down in the chair; finally; opens the cover of the book. "The last time we saw Charlie," Hermann begins, "he was riding high above—"

" _Shut up!_ " the Precursors cut in, "shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ What the _hell_ do you think you're doing? You—" the snarl creeps into the tone; scorn, lips canted into a sneer. "You're just a fucking _insect._ We're going to crush you, and your world, and—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Hermann interrupts, closing the book and setting it in his lap. "I'm going to sit here, for the allotted time, and I'm going to keep Newton company—wherever you are in there."

" _He's dead!_ " they scream, "he's _dead,_ Gottlieb, and _we've killed him just like we're going to kill you!_ "

"I've been told I'm too stubborn to die," Hermann says, drily. "As a matter of fact, Newton, I believe _you_ were the one—"

" _He's not there!_ "

"—who said that," Hermann continues, calmly. "I was rather insulted, I think, at the time; now, though…I find it just as humorous as you did."

The Precursors spend the entirety of the visit raging—at him, at Newton; at humanity. Hermann ignores it all, speaking softly; steadily. When his time's up, he rises. "I'll ask them to allow you audio-books," he promises. "You can finally finish all of the ones you never got around to, hmm?"

" _Fuck you,_ " the Precursors spit.

* * *

Finally, it's over.

Newton is back.

The Precursors' control, waning without repeated Drifts to reinforce it, held on for far, far longer that anyone had thought it would—long enough that some in the PPDC had begun to suggest—well.

Suggestions that Hermann was _less-than enthused_ about.

Regardless, though; now, Newton sits in the armchair in Hermann's flat. He'd moved out of the PPDC-issued accommodations less than a year ago, but already, it feels more homely, more welcoming, than those ever did.

It has to do in part, Hermann suspects, with the fact that, given the increased wall-space, he finally has a place to put all of Newton's art and posters—items that the other left behind when he left for Shao, but which Hermann has kept, all these years.

Now, Newton lays on the brown armchair; clad in a too-large hoodie and a pair of sweatpants—Hermann's, the legs too long on him—, Hermann wonders at his life.

"I missed this, you know," Newton says, after a moment. "Just…existing together, you know? It's…nice."

"Yes," Hermann agrees.

"I'm hungry," Newton adds, and Hermann laughs. "What! I haven't had proper food in _ages._ The bastards were all about _healthy_ foods, which was, like, a _fuckton_ of veggie protein smoothies. And crossfit…ugh. I may look toned, but at what _cost?_ "

"There's cereal in the cupboard, and ingredients for sandwiches in the fridge," Hermann replies, "you can help yourself."

Newton hums; low and slow, and for a moment, Hermann's back ten years before; sitting in a normally frantic lab together, side-by-side on the futon; taking a break for a moment between all the chaos; calm.

He shakes his head.

Newton rises and disappears into the kitchen; the sound of porcelain on granite reaches Hermann, and then the tap turns on; the whistle of boiling water. Newton must be making himself coffee; the Precursors haven't taken his love for that. Hermann smiles to himself a bit at that.

After a bit longer, Newton reappears, a tray in hand; a bowl and two cups. "I made you tea," he says, offering the cup, "black, no sugar. Hope it turned out okay."

"It's—" Hermann pauses; letting the cup warm his hands. "That you," he says instead. _You remembered,_ he doesn't say.

Newton gives a half-smile; sits by his side, dips his fingers into the bowl, and laughs slightly when Hermann makes a face. "Cheerios," he says, "I can't believe you have them, by the way."

"Force of habit," Hermann returns. _I know you like them,_ he doesn't add.

"Mm," Newton hums. Offers Hermann the bowl. "Want some?"

"I—oh, alright," Hermann sighs, and takes a few. "They taste like cardboard," he complains. "I have _no_ idea why you like them."

"Acquired taste," Newton replies with a shrug, and leans into Hermann's side a bit.

Hermann's lips quirk. The sunlight streams through the half-open blinds and onto the tea-table, illuminating the book sitting there.

Newton catches sight of the book. "Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator?" He asks, incredulous. "Dude, I didn't know you kept my copy! I was wondering where that got to…"

Hermann's cheeks heat. "Sentiment makes fools of us all," he says, and then, more slowly, "would you like it back?"

"No! No, no," Newton shakes his head. "It's yours, man. Gift from me to you, yeah?"

"…alright," Hermann says; grudging. "Would…would you like me to read it to you?"

The question surprises even him; tumbling out, unintentionally, it gives them both pause; then, after a moment, a smile blooms on Newton's features. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, I'd like that."


	106. 106

**the things we leave behind**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""I wanna go for a walk," Newt complains, one day; hands stuck, not in a bit of kaiju, but on the single-use chopsticks that are refusing to break apart like they're supposed to.

Hermann, across from him—they may be rivals, but they also have this…thing, that means they sit together in the mess—raises his head from where it's buried in a book; pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose—an action that, on anyone else, Newt would call cute—and scowls. "Then what's stopping you from doing so and leaving me in _peace?_ " he growls; but without terribly much bite."

* * *

"Geiszler."

It's the greeting that throws him; for a moment, he teeters; hesitant; working his jaw; the man across from him, familiar— _too_ familiar, he knows, to be calling him _Geiszler._

Oh. Right.

He throws a wide grin on to hide the pain of it.

"Herms!" he exclaims; a vengeful little bit of him delighting in the way the other sets his jaw; teeth grit, eyes narrowing; "how've you been, man?"

" _Just_ fine," Hermann replies; clipped. "Doing work that will _actually_ help the human race, unlike _certain_ persons."

Newt widens his grin until it hurts; refuses to reply to the pointed jab; it's been too long since they've seen each other; this shouldn't affect him, but it does; he's better at hiding it, now, though, so that's…something. "I hear you're in from Vladivostok," he says, instead.

As if remembering it, the physicist gives a little shudder. " _Terrible_ place," he sniffs. "Too _bloody_ cold."

 _Ah,_ Newt thinks, gaze drifting down. It must've been awful, what with his leg, and Newt feels a pang at that; sympathy.

He brushes it away quickly. "Well," he says, "if you need a _tour—_ "

"I do _not,_ " Hermann snaps; sharply.

Newt raises his hands. "Okay, okay! No need to bite my head off!"

"It's hardly unwarranted when you won't stop wiggling your eyebrows like—" he makes a little motion of disgust, " _—that._ "

Newt gives a huff. "Spoilsport," he mutters. "Fine, get lost on your way to debrief with Pentecost, for all I care."

"I _shan't,_ thank you," Hermann shoots back.

* * *

"I wanna go for a walk," Newt complains, one day; hands stuck, not in a bit of kaiju, but on the single-use chopsticks that are refusing to break apart like they're supposed to.

Hermann, across from him—they may be rivals, but they also have this…thing, that means they sit together in the mess—raises his head from where it's buried in a book; pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose—an action that, on anyone else, Newt would call _cute_ —and scowls. "Then what's stopping you from doing so and leaving me in _peace?_ " he growls; but without terribly much bite.

Newt sighs dramatically; sweeps his arms out. "It's _monsoon season,_ " he laments, "and _I_ haven't got _anything_ waterproof."

"You…haven't an umbrella," Hermann says—states, flatly.

"Well, no," Newt admits, "but look, in my _defence—_ "

"You," Hermann says, "are an _idiot_." And then he returns to his book.

"Well thank you, Mr. Age of Enlightenment," Newt says, sarcastically, and stabs at the food. " _Real_ helpful—they should nominate you for an award for that, _really._ "

Hermann ignores him.

Still, a few days later, when he gets back to his quarters, there's a single, big, sturdy black umbrella laying on his bed.

" _Creepy,_ " he says, to thin air, "also, _terrible taste._ It doesn't even have dinosaurs on it!"

He uses it, though, at least for the week; afterwards, it's relegated to the back of his closet, forgotten, though he does take the hint and get a raincoat.

* * *

"I'd like to look through the—the—" his voice trembles; gaze cast low; swallows, but Hermann seems to understand (he always does).

He nods. "Of course," he says, hands clasped together on the head of his cane, "it's understandable that you'd want… _closure._ But, Newton," he hesitates; then, softly, "I just want you to remember, when we're there…that wasn't you."

Newt laughs, hollowly. "Might as well have been," he returns, carefully ignoring the _we_ that Hermann uses; to intimate for _this._

Hermann sets his jaw; doesn't argue, though; they've rehashed this enough to know what the other's going to say; step-for-step, like some sort of fucked up dance, except the music happens to be the looming knowledge that Newt spent years and years as a tool for a race of genocidal aliens.

"When?" Hermann asks, instead.

He shrugs. "Now?" he asks, trying to sound decisive, but his voice rises at the end, betraying uncertainty.

"…now," Hermann repeats; sighs, eyes flicking closed for a moment, before he locks his gaze with Newt's. "Alright," he says.

So; they do.

The penthouse is pretentious and avant-garde, and really, _really_ fucking up the inside of Newt's head right now, but he doesn't say anything; they make their way through the kitchen and living-room, and then up—

Ah; fuck; right.

 _This._

He stands, frozen in place, in the doorway to the bedroom; staring at the empty area by the armchair; Hermann, he thinks, is saying something, worried, but he can't hear him; ears buzzing, head full of static.

A hand on his shoulder; Newt crumples to the floor without resistance; doesn't even feel the pain as his knees hit the ground.

"Newton!"

"'s fine," Newt tries to reassure, "I'm—fine, I'm fine, just. _Remembering._ " He shudders.

Hermann doesn't say anything; just stands, lips pursed, tight.

Out of the corner of his eye, Newt spots the closet. "Hey, _clothes,_ " he says, trying to distract; hauls himself to his feet. "Let's see what evil-me wore…" he pulls the doors open, pushes clothes aside without really seeing them—

And freezes.

There, at the back of the closet; a long, black, shape.

Newt reaches for it, hands shaking, and pulls it out.

It's—

"That's the umbrella I gave you," Hermann says; speaking for the first time in a bit; moves towards him. "It _is,_ isn't it, Newton?"

"I—" Newt swallows; sits down, eyes tearing up, and holds the umbrella tightly; voice thick, says, "it—it is, yeah."

And then, suddenly, he's crying; head bowed, tears streaming down his cheeks; and Hermann's at his side; then, embracing him. "Oh, _Newton…_ "

"I'm _fine,_ " Newt protests, but his voice trembles. He stops trying to speak.

Finally, the tears stop, but Hermann doesn't pull away.

"I'm…surprised," Newt says, finally; almost to himself. "And…kind of happy. Which is stupid, I know, but…they threw everything else out, even…even your letters."

Admitting it is hard; the words stick in his throat, but once they're out, Hermann hugs him tighter. "Newton," he says, and then; "let's get out of here, darling."

Newt gives a shaky laugh; grips the umbrella tight. "Okay," he says.

It's started to drizzle when they get outside, but the umbrella is big enough for two, so Newt holds it in one hand and holds Hermann's hand in the other, and they stay dry.


	107. 107

**two steps back from where i wanna be**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "It's been ten years; Newt needs to do some catching up.

He starts with media, which, in all honesty, may not have been the very best idea ever."

* * *

"So," Newt says.

They're standing in the waiting-room-slash-lobby—well, actually, technically, it's the hallways leading down to his cell, but it's spacious as fuck, so. Lobby, in Newt' mind.

Hermann, standing at his side, turns and raises a brow; the slight light of trepidation in his eyes, which, okay, _not fair,_ really, honestly, he's not _that_ bad, and asks, "Yes…?"

"So," Newt says, again, and then: "What'd I— _miss!_ "

Hermann groans; drags a hand through his hair—hell, that's from _him,_ isn't it? Hermann never used to do that, it was always _Newt_ —and says, flatly, "You're a horrible, horrible person. I hate that I know that reference."

Newt grins. "Sure," he says, "we both know you've watched bootleg copies."

"I have _not!_ " Hermann protests; eyes narrowing, "how _dare—_ "

" _Gentlemen!_ "

Mako; Newt stops. She's…still alive?

 _Oh, god,_ he thinks; a little bit delirious and a lot bit fucking _emotional, she's_ alive.

And she _is;_ though missing an eye, and in a medical wheel-chair, her gaze is as sharp as ever; black hair bob-length still, and with blue streaks in it again, and Newt suddenly remembers a day a bit like this, ten years ago: Mako, soaked and weary, but alive none-the-less, laying in a medical cot.

" _Mako,_ " he says, softly; because, honestly, he's afraid that if he speaks too loud, she'll disappear or something; a hallucination conjured by his mind.

"Doctor Geiszler," she greets; voice quiet as well, and a little hoarse, but there's a soft smile playing at her lips, and Newt finds a matching one rising; vision clouding a bit, and he drags a hand over his eyes roughly.

"Good to see you, kid," Newt says. "Good to…good to see you." _Alive,_ he doesn't say, because that's too painful.

Hermann moves a bit closer; raises his arm, a bit, hand hovering over Newt's hip; not touching, quite, but offering an unspoken reassurance.

 _God,_ Newt thinks, gaze flicking from Hermann to Mako, _I don't deserve any of this._

* * *

"Still, though," Newt says, "the point stands: cadets, what did I miss? Media-wise, I mean," he adds, when Hermann looks like he's about to launch into a rant about the geo-political state.

"Uh," says the tall, Russian one. "…media?"

"Movies, books, tv, c'mon," Newt prompts, impatiently, "does the CW still exist? Supergirl, the Flash—oh, are they making more Mission: Impossible movies? Oh—Riverdale?"

One of the cadets winces, and Newt's head swivels. "Ah-hah!" he exclaims, " _Riverdale!_ "

"Oh, no," one of the other cadets groans, "look, dude, _please—_ "

"They found another Riverdale beneath the real one!" pipes the little kid—Amara? Her name's Amara, Newt's pretty sure; the kid who built her own Jaeger. "Yep, that's me," she chirps, and Newt blinks; he hadn't realised he's said it aloud.

Anyway. "Another one?" he asks.

"Yeah," she nods; enthusiastic, and the other cadets look about ready to sink into the floor. "Like—Through the Looking Glass. It was cool! Archie almost lost all of his limbs. They even had a kaiju!"

"They _what,_ " Newt says, flatly.

"Namani," the Russian snaps; glaring, "do not subject us to this."

Amara scowls at her. "You're just jealous I won't pay attention to you, Vik," she retorts, and turns back to Newt. "The finale is that they're in a time-loop and they all die and get sent back to the start of the show."

"That's…" Newt pauses, giving the ceiling a scrutinising look. "Really fucked up," he settles on.

"Newton!" Hermann hisses, " _language!_ "

"Idi nahui," Vik says, without missing a beat, and raises a thin, bleached-blonde brow. "We are not innocent children, doctor. We were born in a war."

" _Vik,_ " Amara sighs; turns to Hermann. "Sorry, Doctor Geiszler," she says. "That was…depressing."

And true, Newt doesn't say; realises, suddenly, that, _fuck;_ these kids are old enough that, yeah, they _do_ remember the Kaiju War, and isn't that a trip? He swallows; turns to Hermann. Suddenly, the thought of catching up seems uniquely unappealing.

"I think I left the stove on," he mutters, and begins to walk. No one points out that Newt doesn't even have his own _room,_ let alone a _stove._

Hermann catches up with him after a few moments. "Newton?" he says; worry in his tone. "Are you alright?"

Newt gives a smile that's less of a smile and more of a baring of teeth. "They should be at home, playing with their peers," he says, "but because of me, they're not. Because of me, they're growing too old too fast."

" _Your_ fault?" Hermann scoffs.

He gives a laugh that's less a laugh and more a pained exhale; teeth clicking against each other. "They're soldiers, Hermann," he says. "Even if they survive—and that's a big fucking _if,_ Hermann!—they're going to be fucked up to kingdom come—all because I couldn't fucking resist Drifting again!"

His voice's risen; loud, and high, he's on the verge of a panic-attack and they both know it, but he doesn't _fucking_ care, because this? This is all on him.

"Newton!" Hermann snaps, the _click_ of his cane loud on the ground as he speeds up, turning on his heel so he's standing in front of Newt, facing him; hand reaching out, and Newt flinches. "Newton," he says, again, more calmly; and this time, Newt doesn't flinch; stops, and lets the other touch him.

(Suddenly, there's the scent of lavender in his nose; Hermann, standing before him, eyes pleading. "Please, Newton," he begs, teary-eyed, one hand gripping his cane, the other, the handle of his suitcase. "Don't make me hate you. Loving you is hard enough."

"Go love someone else," Newt dismisses.

A beat; Hermann swallows. "Alright, then," he says, shakily.

The door closes softly behind him, leaving Newt with nothing but an empty flat, a tray of cooling muffins, and the overwhelming need to scream his despair out, shred his fingers on the strings of a guitar with the pain of it.

Instead, the next day, he digs the tank out of storage and resumes his Drift experiments again, more frequently now that he doesn't have to lie and fit time in where it barely goes, avoiding Hermann all along.)

"You're blaming yourself for something out of your control," Hermann says. "Please, Newton, _breathe._ "

He swallows.

In.

Out.

In.

The beat of his heart fades; no longer does the blood pound in his ears, river-rapids fast. Colour seeps, slowly, back into his surroundings, sepia to faded greys and colour. He breathes.

Hermann, across from him, meets his gaze. "Alright?" he asks.

"Y—yeah, thanks," Newt mutters.

"Let's go back home," Hermann suggests. His hand is still on Newt's arm, but neither of them comment on it. "We can order take-out, if you'd like."

"…home," Newt repeats; the image of Hermann's appartment flashing before his mind's eye, and he smiles, just a little. "Yeah, alright."

"Good," Hermann says, and his hand slips from Newt's arm to his hand, and squeezes. "Good," he says again.

Newt blinks rapidly and squeezes back.


	108. 108

**little things**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Female Newton Geiszler/Female Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newton sits; again; cradles the guitar to his chest. "Would you like me to play you something?"

"I—" Hermann stops; startled; breath catching in his throat; chokes, nearly, on the emotion rising in his chest, like water filling his lungs; drowning in it. "Yes," he manages. "I—I would like that rather much, Newton.""

* * *

"What," says Hermann, turning down the dial on the radio, " _are_ you doing?"

Newton, laying on his stomach on the floor, papers and bowls and—"Newton," he says, sharply, "are those my _inkwells?_ "

The other starts; a guilty expression on his face.

"Absolutely not," he says, making to cover up one of the inkwells with a sheet of staff paper. "Those are in no way, shape, or form, your ink thingies."

Hermann sighs. "How did you even get one?" he says, instead; "you've not been out of this room since they switched you from the original room, and that was over a month ago." The last remark brings a scowl to his face; Newton is no longer a threat—they shouldn't be keeping him under lock and key anymore.

"Hey, hey, hey," Newton says. "Dude, I can hear your upset from over here. It's chill, alright? I get it. Don't be upset at them—it makes sense that they want to be sure the Precursors aren't hanging around anymore. Plus," he gestures to the room around him, "it's not like they're keeping me in a padded cell."

" _Anymore,_ " Hermann bites; two months of furious arguing before they'd even give him a _pillow!_ His fingers tap an anxious beat on the head of his cane; Newton's nervous tic, originally.

Newton lets out a huff of breath. "I just said it's chill, dude," he reassures. "Anyway, I'm not telling you how I got 'em."

Hermann presses the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Well, at least, what are you _doing_ with them?"

"Composing," Newton says. "I used to be great at it."

"I see you're just as humble as ever," Hermann says drily. "What are you composing?"

Newton hums. "Fight-scene music," he says. "I'm composing some epic fight-scene music for the bedroom." He spreads the papers back out; picks up a pencil. The inkwells, Hermann notices, are capped, as if unopened, but Newton's fingers bear the tell-tale traces of ink.

"The bedroom," Hermann repeats; lowers himself to sit next to the other.

"Mhm. The, uh, one in the penthouse—you know, the one with the, uh," he gestures to his head; wriggles his fingers in imitation of tentacles.

Hermann swallows thickly; wonders, _Whyever would you do that?_

Newton catches sight of his expression; laughs, a little bitterly. "Roadmap of my life," he says; "in musical form. Figured that if I couldn't get it back, I should at least try and get my thoughts about it out." He gives a single-shouldered shrug. "Want to see?"

"That's…" Hermann pauses; at loss, a bit, for words; Newton is, in a way, baring his soul to him—and what is he to say to that? "I have work," he says, instead; a lump in his throat; "I should—I should get to it."

"Alright," Newton says; a downturn to his expression.

Hermann hurries out.

* * *

"Hermann," Newton greets; sitting, this time, in a chair; paper in front of him, again; this time, inkwells accompanied by paper-cranes, music staffs flue on the folds. "How are you?"

"Newton," Hermann replies; hefts, awkwardly, griping it with a single hand, the guitar up and offers it to Newton. "I, ah," he pauses; "I thought, perhaps, you might…enjoy having something to play your pieces on, or…or just play on, should the urge strike you."

Newt raises his head; blinks, unspeaking; and then: "Oh…Hermann…" he trails off; takes the guitar with a carefulness that Hermann's rarely seen in him; like he's handling a kitten, or a particularly precious piece of kaiju. "Thank you," he says, softly.

Hermann turns his head; gaze to the ground; grips his cane. "It was the least I could do," he says; slightly hoarse; doesn't say what he thinks: _I wish I could do more._

Newton sits; again; cradles the guitar to his chest. "Would you like me to play you something?"

"I—" Hermann stops; startled; breath catching in his throat; chokes, nearly, on the emotion rising in his chest, like water filling his lungs; drowning in it. "Yes," he manages. "I—I would like that rather much, Newton."

Newton bites his lip; holds the neck of it like it's the first time, but his fingers, when he starts, are sure; voice, too, though it wavers at the corners, like a well-loved blanket.

 _I didn't_

 _Mean to come here and I_

 _Never thought you'd stay_

 _But still_

 _You sit here_

 _By my side_

 _And technicolour_

 _Fades_

 _Away_

 _The monochrome of sleep_

 _That clouds my mind_

 _And brings me back to life_

Newton's voice fades; Hermann's eyes open; he doesn't know when they slipped closed. "That…" he breathes; once, twice; doesn't say anything more, unsure of _how_ to say it, of _what_ to say, even.

The biologist crooks a half-smile. "It's shit, I know," he says, "it's been a while since I, uh, wrote anything."

"What's…does it have a title?" Hermann asks; half-hoping—for _what?_

"January," Newton replies; doesn't meet his gaze; sets the guitar down on the floor, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

Ah. Hermann swallows.

"You should probably get going," Newton says; "you have places to be, right?"

"Actually…" Hermann pauses; purses his lips. "They're finalising the paperwork right now," he says; watches Newton's eyes widen.

"What?" he chokes; fingers laxing.

"You're free to go, Newton," Hermann says; and there's a tear in his voice, he can feel it; the silent catch of emotion.

Newton blinks at him; eyes wide; glassy; and then, suddenly, a single tear slips, trails down his cheek. "Hermann…" he stops; drops his hands to his lap; and then, without warning, with a cry, falls into him; clinging to the cloth of his pants like a lifeline.

"Newton, Newton, Newton," Hermann soothes; carefully lowers himself to the ground, cradles the biologist's head in his lap. "Oh, Newton…"

Newton doesn't speak; tears wetting the legs of Hermann's pants; when he raises his head, finally, he drags a hand over his eyes roughly. "Hermann," he says, again; and Hermann returns the tentative smile twisting at his lips.

"Newton," he greets.


	109. 109

**the power he knows not**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "It goes like this: the world is going to end. It's Newt's fault.

He's triggered the Breaches already; fingers tapped in the fatal sequence, and he smiles, wide; smug, though he's screaming inside.

"I'm ending the world," they say in his voice, with his mouth.

(OR: That Scene goes a little differently, feat. Hermann's recklessness and how it actually kind of saves the day)"

* * *

Newt wonders, sometimes, how this would have turned out had things gone differently; the ghost of possibilities layering his mind.

He is a brilliant man.

He probably overthinks things too much; he should be happy, really, that they're gone, but it hangs over him; Hermann's sacrifice; gnaws at his mind.

Would he have done the same?

* * *

It goes like this: the world is going to end. It's Newt's fault.

He's triggered the Breaches already; fingers tapped in the fatal sequence, and he smiles, wide; smug, though he's screaming inside.

"I'm ending the world," they say in his voice, with his mouth.

Several things happen at once; one: Newt hears the click of a gun; the hissed breath of surprise Hermann draws; mere centimetres away from him.

Two: Shao's voice, snarling a, "I will _not_ let you ruin my life's work!"

Three: Hermann's moving before the gun even fires; and suddenly he's doubling over, cane clattering to the ground as he falls, and Newt feels the phantom echo of pain.

The gun drops to the ground as Shao retreats.

Suddenly, then; silence.

He can no longer feel Hermann breathing.

"No," he says— _whispers,_ and it _is_ him, driving them back, rage white-hot as the word rips from his throat. "No! _Hermann!_ "

His knees hit the floor; too hard.

The other doesn't have a pulse.

He dredges up faint memories; begins chest-compressions. In his mind, he furiously wills Hermann to do this, to not bee we _fucking_ gone.

Ribs bend and crack under his hands; his arms burn with the force of it; they're screaming in the back of his mind, but Newt drowns it all out.

There's blood soaking his hands; pooling on the ground.

Hermann's heart does not beat.

The paramedics—or guards? Newt can't tell; his world narrowed to a single point—drag him away; lift Hermann into a stretcher.

"He's lost a lot of blood," someone says, at some point; he's in a medbay (when did he get here?). "We'll need to do a transfer."

 _Live,_ Newt chants, wrists cuffed behind his back.

* * *

"My heart stopped four times," Hermann tells him; after; skin pale and drawn, but he takes Newt's hands in his own. "I always did say you'd be the death of me."

"Not like this," Newt murmurs; "never like this."

"I hardly think slipping on kaiju entrails is a more dignified way to go," Hermann says drily.

Newt avoids his gaze; pulls his hands back. "You should leave," he says, "there's nothing for you here."

"There's _you,_ " Hermann says; voice so unbearably soft. "It's always you, Newton."

"Find someone better," Newt mutters.

They don't talk about death the next time Hermann visits.

Newt writes a poem on the wall about slow-onset insanity, and signs it _the ghost of you,_ because it seems ironic to, given it's ripped off of a love-poem he wrote Hermann ten years ago.

* * *

They let him out eventually. Newt's not really sure why.

He doesn't look the gift-horse in the mouth, though; takes the opportunity to donate most of his money to the rebuilding effort and fucks off to a cottage in the woods three-hundred-thousand miles away.

It takes Hermann two weeks to come knocking on his door in the assfuck middle of nowhere.

"I brought cookies," he says, thrusting the box towards Newt. "Snickerdoodles. Soft-baked."

"Store-bought," Newt says, instead of pointing out that it's a bad idea for him to be here.

Hermann shrugs. "I can't bake," he replies. "And I thought you'd appreciate them unburnt."

Newt sighs; takes the box and shoves the door open with hours shoulder, the warm air blowing out. "Come in," he says, and tries to convince himself it's only because it's the polite thing to do.

There's a card taped on top of the box. It's got a badly drawn heart on it. _You're a really heart-stopper,_ it says. Newt scowls.

"I hate your sense of humour," he says.

Hermann shrugs. "It's yours," he replies. "More you know why I hated your jokes all those years ago."

They end up huddled together on the sofa. Newt doesn't have a lot of furniture, so it's partially out of necessity.

"I miss you," Hermann tells him; head resting against his shoulder; fingers knotting the frayed edges of the blanket together.

Newt blinks at him; slow. "You miss having someone you know around," he corrects.

"No, I miss _you,_ " Hermann says.

Newt presses his lips; doesn't reply to that—because how _can_ he? So instead he just lets his eyes drift shut and pretends like he doesn't notice when Hermann's fingers wander into his.

"You make awful decisions," he says, instead.

Hermann hums; doesn't answer to that.

* * *

Hermann stays the night.

Newt wakes up with a crick in his neck, a dry throat, and the warmth of another on his skin, not yet faded; the blanket tucked carefully around him.

He wanders into the kitchen; finds a message on the fridge. _Went to get tea. Back by nine. H_

His fingers hover, for a moment, before he pulls them away; leaves the words, letters' usually sharp peaks softened by dry-erase marker, where they are; smiles, inadvertent.

There's something resembling a plate of toast and eggs when he wakes up; a cup of hot-chocolate (instant mix, going by the scent) off to the side.

Newt nibbles at the toast, scrapes the eggs—burnt—into the garbage, and waters the avocado seed he planted last week with the hot chocolate.

Something warm blooms in his stomach.


	110. 110

**elevator love**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "It's just their luck that they'd get stuck in an elevator."

* * *

Cold; the sensation of glass beneath his fingers, and through it seeping the frigid warmth of iced water.

Around him, laughter; the click of glasses as the attendants make merry. It's been almost half a year since they closed the Breach, and Hermann has been to enough parties for a lifetime.

It's the falseness, perhaps; most of the people here are, Hermann thinks, jaw setting, like his father; cowards who hid inland while the rest of the world died as cannon-fodder, and now they want to claim a hand in ending the war. _Bastards,_ Hermann thinks darkly; they weren't the ones who watched colleagues die.

There's a hand on the small of his back; the barest touch; comforting. "Dude," Newton says, "loosen your jaw; I can feel your teeth getting pulverised."

"Newton," Hermann greets; ignoring his words. "What are you doing here?"

Newton shrugs. "Not much," he replies; shoulders taut beneath the too-right fabric of his jacket—one Hermann suspects is nearly a decade old.

They don't speak, then, even though they both know what's on his— _their,_ he supposes—mind, but Newton's hand stays steady against his skin even as they move to another part of the room.

"I think I'm going to pass out," Newton says, finally; catching Hermann's gaze with a sympathetic wince; Hermann's leg is stiff and sore and has only been getting worse for the past hour. "What do you say we head back to the hotel?"

Hermann sighs; relief. "We wouldn't want you to faint," he replies; for the benefit of the onlookers more so than Newton's; thinks a fleeting _thank you _ in his direction for the convenient excuse.

They make a quick escape, or as quick as Hermann can manage; their hotel is only just next-door, thankfully, so even though it's raining, they don't get very wet.

Newton gently guides him into the elevator; presses the button for their floor. "You okay?" he asks softly; worry flickering in his gaze.

"…tired," Hermann replies; eventually; the single word hard to get out. His eyes are drooping.

"I'm sorry, man," Newt says; stands on his toes to press a soft kiss yo Hermann's forehead, "I—"

The elevator shudders and screeches to a halt with a grating grind. Hermann starts; head jerking forward, and then Newton's yelping with pain and Hermann's eyes screw up at the sting of sweet biting into skin.

"Owww," Newt hisses, "shit, dude, are you okay?"

"Fine," Hermann grits out, but he lowers himself to sit on the ground; he doesn't think they'll be getting out for a bit, given that Newton has to press the call button three times before they get any answer.

Newton joins him on the floor after that. "I hate this," he whines, "I just want to get back and cuddle."

"I'd rather eat," Hermann replies; a smile threatening to tug at his lips when Newton gives a mock scowl and glares.

"You know what? I want a divorce," he sniffs, "you're neglecting my—my _needs!._ "

"We're not even married," Hermann shoots back drily; head coming to rest on Newton's shoulders; lets out a soft sigh as Newton begins carding his fingers through his hair.

"And whose fucking fault is _that?_ " Newton replies.

"Newton, _darling,_ we'd just had sex for the first time when you asked," Hermann says; eyes opening a slit, and he raises a brow.

"I knew I was in love already," Newton says dramatically; clasps his hand to his chest. Against the floor, his boots tap a rhythm only he knows.

"I'm sure you did," Hermann says.

Newton huffs. "You're horrible," he says; but there's a line of fondness beneath it.

"Mm," Hermann returns; curls in towards the warmth of the other. "I think I shall rest until management sends someone to solve this issue."

Newton doesn't reply; just continues running his fingers through Hermann's hair, soothingly.

When Hermann awakens, it's too the sound of people talking. His head is pillowed in Newton's lap, and the doors are open.

"Hey sleepyhead," Newton greets, "let's get you to bed, 'kay?"

"That sounds lovely," Hermann murmurs, and lets Newton help him up and down the hallway.

The room is warm, and Newton only turns the lights on dimly. Hermann nods his thanks as he downs his medication; there's a headache brewing behind his eyes from the bright lighting at the gala earlier.

Newton digs through their bags for his nightclothes. "D'you want your thick ones?" he asks.

"No, I think I'll be fine," Hermann replies. "You're like a bloody _furnace—_I'd swelter with those."

The biologist laughs; softly; "Good point," he says, and brings over the thinner pair—pale green—and sets them down beside Hermann.

Hermann fumbles with the buttons of his shirt; lets out a frustrated hiss. "Damnit," he sighs; wishes he'd chosen to wear something more _sensible._ He hates these events, he really _does._

"Here, let me help," Newton says; moves to Hermann's side, tugs his fingers away; neatly unbuttons his shirt.

"Thank you, dear," Hermann says, and pulls on the night-shirt with a sigh, then changes his pants while Newton returns to the task of changing his own clothes.

Finally, he's done. When he turns, Newton is already beneath the covers, eyes half-shut. Hermann pulls back the covers. "Move over."

"The sacrifices I make for you," Newton mumbles, but he moves easily; turns to gaze at Hermann, arms reaching out.

"In a moment," Hermann replies, "let me turn off the light first."

"Ugh," Newton groans, but waits. When Hermann switches off the light, he lays down, pulling the duvet up.

"Love you," Newton says, embracing him; arm over his shoulders, breath warm against his neck.

"And I, you, Newton," Hermann returns; smiling softly, though the other can't see it in the dark.


	111. 111

**let me give you my light**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""I miss you," Hermann tells him; head resting against his shoulder; fingers knotting the frayed edges of the blanket together.

Newt blinks at him; slow. "You miss having someone you know around," he corrects.

"No, I miss _you_ ," Hermann says."

* * *

Newt wonders, sometimes, how this would have turned out had things gone differently; the ghost of possibilities layering his mind.

He is a brilliant man.

He probably overthinks things too much; he should be happy, really, that they're gone, but it hangs over him; Hermann's sacrifice; gnaws at his mind.

Would he have done the same?

* * *

It goes like this: the world is going to end. It's Newt's fault.

He's triggered the Breaches already; fingers tapped in the fatal sequence, and he smiles, wide; smug, though he's screaming inside.

"I'm ending the world," they say in his voice, with his mouth.

Several things happen at once; one: Newt hears the click of a gun; the hissed breath of surprise Hermann draws; mere centimetres away from him.

Two: Shao's voice, snarling a, "I will _not_ let you ruin my life's work!"

Three: Hermann's moving before the gun even fires; and suddenly he's doubling over, cane clattering to the ground as he falls, and Newt feels the phantom echo of pain.

The gun drops to the ground as Shao retreats.

Suddenly, then; silence.

He can no longer feel Hermann breathing.

"No," he says— _whispers,_ and it _is_ him, driving them back, rage white-hot as the word rips from his throat. "No! _Hermann!_ "

His knees hit the floor; too hard.

The other doesn't have a pulse.

He dredges up faint memories; begins chest-compressions. In his mind, he furiously wills Hermann to do this, to not bee we _fucking_ gone.

Ribs bend and crack under his hands; his arms burn with the force of it; they're screaming in the back of his mind, but Newt drowns it all out.

There's blood soaking his hands; pooling on the ground.

Hermann's heart does not beat.

The paramedics—or guards? Newt can't tell; his world narrowed to a single point—drag him away; lift Hermann into a stretcher.

"He's lost a lot of blood," someone says, at some point; he's in a medbay (when did he get here?). "We'll need to do a transfer."

 _Live,_ Newt chants, wrists cuffed behind his back.

* * *

"My heart stopped four times," Hermann tells him; after; skin pale and drawn, but he takes Newt's hands in his own. "I always did say you'd be the death of me."

"Not like this," Newt murmurs; "never like this."

"I hardly think slipping on kaiju entrails is a more dignified way to go," Hermann says drily.

Newt avoids his gaze; pulls his hands back. "You should leave," he says, "there's nothing for you here."

"There's _you,_ " Hermann says; voice so unbearably soft. "It's always you, Newton."

"Find someone better," Newt mutters.

They don't talk about death the next time Hermann visits.

Newt writes a poem on the wall about slow-onset insanity, and signs it _the ghost of you,_ because it seems ironic to, given it's ripped off of a love-poem he wrote Hermann ten years ago.

* * *

They let him out eventually. Newt's not really sure why.

He doesn't look the gift-horse in the mouth, though; takes the opportunity to donate most of his money to the rebuilding effort and fucks off to a cottage in the woods three-hundred-thousand miles away.

It takes Hermann two weeks to come knocking on his door in the assfuck middle of nowhere.

"I brought cookies," he says, thrusting the box towards Newt. "Snickerdoodles. Soft-baked."

"Store-bought," Newt says, instead of pointing out that it's a bad idea for him to be here.

Hermann shrugs. "I can't bake," he replies. "And I thought you'd appreciate them unburnt."

Newt sighs; takes the box and shoves the door open with hours shoulder, the warm air blowing out. "Come in," he says, and tries to convince himself it's only because it's the polite thing to do.

There's a card taped on top of the box. It's got a badly drawn heart on it. _You're a really heart-stopper,_ it says. Newt scowls.

"I hate your sense of humour," he says.

Hermann shrugs. "It's yours," he replies. "More you know why I hated your jokes all those years ago."

They end up huddled together on the sofa. Newt doesn't have a lot of furniture, so it's partially out of necessity.

"I miss you," Hermann tells him; head resting against his shoulder; fingers knotting the frayed edges of the blanket together.

Newt blinks at him; slow. "You miss having someone you know around," he corrects.

"No, I miss _you,_ " Hermann says.

Newt presses his lips; doesn't reply to that—because how _can_ he? So instead he just lets his eyes drift shut and pretends like he doesn't notice when Hermann's fingers wander into his.

"You make awful decisions," he says, instead.

Hermann hums; doesn't answer to that.

* * *

Hermann stays the night.

Newt wakes up with a crick in his neck, a dry throat, and the warmth of another on his skin, not yet faded; the blanket tucked carefully around him.

He wanders into the kitchen; finds a message on the fridge. _Went to get tea. Back by nine. H_

His fingers hover, for a moment, before he pulls them away; leaves the words, letters' usually sharp peaks softened by dry-erase marker, where they are; smiles, inadvertent.

There's something resembling a plate of toast and eggs when he wakes up; a cup of hot-chocolate (instant mix, going by the scent) off to the side.

Newt nibbles at the toast, scrapes the eggs—burnt—into the garbage, and waters the avocado seed he planted last week with the hot chocolate.

Something warm blooms in his stomach.


	112. 112

**i see you (see me)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: **"If Hermann is going to kiss Newt and then expect that he just forget about it, he's sorely mistaken."

* * *

"I love you," Newt says; half drunk on adrenaline and high off of nearly dying too fucking many times; clings to Hermann like a limpet.

Hermann turns; arm still thrown around his shoulder; tight; blinks. "Oh!" he says; after a moment, and flounders; eyes bright. "Oh!" again. "Well," he licks his lips. "Er. Perhaps we ought to revisit this issue tomorrow, when we're both less—" He stops, looking to Newt.

Newt blinks back; laughs, then. "Yeah, probably," he agrees; and that's the last they say of it.

They go back to Newt's rooms; they're closer, really, so it makes sense; they're both dead-tired and kinda out of it a little bit. A lot a bit. Some.

Hermann's leaning against him heavily; grip on his cane white-knuckled as well. "I should go back to mine," Hermann mutters; half-muffled into his neck.

"It's _late,_ " Newt protests.

"I really ought to," Hermann insists; gaze heavy on Newt's; leaning, evermore strongly, into him.

"Stay," Newt says; "it's past three in the morning."

"Newton," Hermann says; exasperated; and tilts his head to catch Newt's lips; tired and sloppy. "Now shush," he says, breaking away; "goodnight." And with that, he detaches himself from Newt and disappears down the hallway.

Newt stands, stock-still, wondering what the hell just happened, and more awake than he's been in days.

* * *

He's pretty sure he imagined it, honestly, waking up in the morning, the scent of blood fresh on his memory—and his skin—, and the unnatural quiet that's probably from a good portion of the shatterdome personnel tending to hangovers from a night spent celebrating the world not ending.

After all, in what world would _Hermann Gottlieb_ kiss _Newton Geiszler?_

None. The answer is none.

Still; the memory of it, clumsy and nearly without thought, sticks with him; sends his hands skittering against the grain of the welding joining the metal of the table into one; thick and gravy even through his gloves.

Hermann's not in yet.

Newt's mind churns with possibilities; of thoughts of Hermann, laying facedown on the floor, passed out because something happened; worse, yet, the thought that he may be dead because of the Drift—the Drift with _Newt!_

The thought chills Newt's blood.

He casts a look around the lab; peels off his gloves—

The door creaks open. "Newton," Hermann greets; calmly as ever. " _Where_ is my chalk?"

Newt glances over at the other's boards. "Uh…" he stops. "You're running late," he says; instead of _I was worried about you,_ because that sounds too— _something_ he's not willing to acknowledges just now.

"I overslept my alarm," Hermann says; strides over to his desk. "Ah!" he exclaims, after a moment; pulls out a new box of chalk. "Oh—"

"Last night," Newt blurts out, without thinking, because, quite fucking frankly, he can barely think about anything else right now.

Hermann's gaze locks with his; for a moment, flashing something unrecognisable. "Yes, well, I'm sure it was a— _lapse of judgement,_ " he says, "now, if you'd excuse me, I _do_ still have work to attend to, even if we're no longer about to die in a kaiju attack."

And that's that; a dismissal—or, it would be, if Newt couldn't see (and _feel,_ thanks, Drift bleed, lovely sensation there) the slight tightening around Hermann's lips; the way his eyes shadow; pain, but not physical. And, you know, he's spent a decade with the dude—now that he's put together the signs, he can't exactly _unsee_ it.

He doesn't _want_ to unsee it, either; though Hermann seems to think he does.

" _Hermann,_ " he tries again, but the scrape of chalk cuts him off; deliberate, Newt _knows;_ because that's who Hermann is; he'll do practically anything to avoid a conversation he's uncertain the outcome of; and the thing is—hell, most days, Newt would be right up there with him, avoiding it, but—

He doesn't _fucking_ want to. Not today; not so soon after they almost just died.

If Hermann wants to dance around the subject then Newt can do the goddamn tango. But he is still going to get his way today.

"Hermann," he says; slaps his gloves down on the table and strides over to the other's ladder. "Hermann!"

" _What?_ " Hermann snaps, peevishly.

"You and I need to talk, dude," Newt says; meets his gaze head-on. Hermann snaps his gaze off towards the floor almost instantaneously; no longer writing, his fingers fidget with the chalk. "Look, I know I'm not usually the sort of person to, uh, be very aware of myself, let alone anyone else, but—"

"Whatever it is," Hermann interrupts, "I'd _appreciate_ if you refrained from pushing against my ladder."

"Oh!" Newt exclaims; pulls back, sheepishly. "Uh. Sorry. Anyway, I was saying—I'm not fucking blind, Herms—I know you kissed me last night, and I _know_ you meant it."

"I…" Hermann stops; jaw working; thinking, Newt knows. Will he face the facts? Or will he continue to pretend like there's nothing between the two of them—that his feelings aren't there as much as Newt's are? If he does, Newt'll respect it—of course he will; he's not a dick; if Hermann doesn't want anything to come of it, then fine; but at least he'd like Hermann to _acknowledge_ it.

Finally, he says, "Well—I suppose you've caught me out."

Newt laughs; high, a bit on edge. "Caught you out," he repeats, "dude, _you_ kissed me after I told you I was maybe kinda in love with you!"

Hermann flushes; ears going red. "I wasn't thinking straight," he says defensively.

"Uh, you could say that," Newt huffs; ignores Hermann's glare. "Anyway, what's the verdict, doc?"

"Well—" Hermann pauses; sets his chalk down and steps down until he's level with Newt. "Well," he says; again, glancing Newt over; one hand gripping against the side of the ladder for support, "I'd rather like to kiss you again, if you don't mind, Newton."

Newt squeaks. "I—no," he sputters, "I, uh—no, I really _don't_ mind."

Hermann smiles; relief, Newt realises; he was more anxious than he let on. "Alright," he says, "come here, Newton."

Newt does; steps up closer, until they're less than an arm's length apart. Hermann reaches out with his free hand to tilt Newt's head up; leans forward, kissing him softly; hand drifting down to rest over his heart. "Is that verdict enough for you?" he asks, after a moment.

Newt grins; wide. "Love you too, Herms," he says.


	113. 113

**priorities**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** " _You can't go back_ the Precursors tell him.

Newton Geiszler looks them head on and tells them to go fuck themselves."

* * *

The sun shines in through the curtains, left open; burn bright.

 _God,_ Newt thinks, _I feel like I haven't slept in a week._

He blinks, once, and then lets out a hiss of discomfort. It feels like there's sand rubbing into his eyes.

Oh; right.

He _has_ been awake for almost a week straight—or at least, his body has; Newt has no idea why they've chosen to step back and let him take a peak around now. Pettines, probably; the bastards love making him clean up after their messes.

He sighs; deeply, the breath whistling through his nose. He's congested; great. Now not only is he going to have to deal with the headache that is work, while having the Precursors hover over his shoulder and wrench back control at any moment without warning.

Of course, that's when Shao decides to drop the proverbial bomb. "We are presenting the drones to the council in two days' time," she says; tone brooking no argument, and Newt starts.

" _What?_ " he says, " _when?_ "

"Two days, Geiszler," she repeats, impatiently. "You were the one to push for it, do you not remember?"

"I did—? Oh, yeah, I did," Newt corrects himself. Shit. _Shit._ Fuck, how long's it been since the last time he was fully up? They hadn't even begun beta-testing the remote piloting systems last time he was fronting!

He presses the hollows above his eyes, nails digging in. "Right," he says, hollowly; wonders, suddenly, why he feels so fucking tired; waves an intern over for a coffee.

God; they're really almost there.

There's nothing he can do, really; if he tries to make off and run, they'll take control, and, well—Newt _really_ doesn't want that, considering his compliance is, like, the only thing he has to bargain to keep Hermann safe.

Is it selfish of him to sacrifice humanity for Hermann? Yeah, yeah it is, but the reality is, they'll go on with the plan even if Newt breaks out; it'll just slow them down a bit, and then straight back to business, and Hermann will be dead.

They're really only keeping Hermann alive to force Newt to not interfere, but at this point, Newt doesn't really care; Hermann's safe, and that's what matters.

* * *

Hermann's there.

That's all he can think, trapped in his own mind—not as tightly as usual, free enough that he can see what's going on—; Hermann's here, Hermann's here, Hermann's _here_ and he's going to get _hurt._

He's already hurting; Newt can see it; see the pain in his eyes and the sadness behind his tremulous smile as he races down to the landing pad; the disappointment and pain when the Precursors dismiss his ideas out of hand.

Then they send the drones rogue and Hermann fucking _breaks into Shao,_ and gives this half-sarcastic half-panicked reply when Newt asks him, "How the _hell_ did you get in?" and then they're _caught,_ of course they are.

"What are you doing?" Hermann asks; gaze snapping to Newt's; turns from jubilation to horror as the Precursors initiate the sequence, say, _Ending the world._ "Precursors," he whispers, and then Newt's moving forward, _knows_ what they're meaning to do and he's _screaming,_ thrashing against the confines of his mind as Hermann struggles beneath his grip.

"N—Newton," he begs, and—his fingers are gentle on Newt's own; reassuring.

 _Fuck!_ Newt screams, and with all the strength his mind has left, batters away at the confines of his mind; the Precursors giving away and he tumbles—

Rips his fingers from Hermann's neck; falls, knees hitting the floor. "Newton?!" Hermann shouts.

"Cancel—sequence," Newt grits out; breathes, almost, a sigh of relief as the screen fades away from red back to normal. He lets his body fall back; exhausted, head hits the floor. Hermann's face hovers over his; unharmed. _Thank fuck._

* * *

The cell's standard-issue; they've strapped him down every way they can. Frankly, Newt can't blame them for it.

What surprises him, really, is the fact that he's in control. The Precursors are there, still; very, very near the surface, but not _quite._ They've gotten a bit weaker, Newt thinks; probably a lack of Drifting—it feels like he's been in here for a bit, going by the marks dug into his wrists.

"Hermann," he murmurs; almost without meaning it. God, Newt hopes he's okay.

He is; and he's _here,_ suddenly. "Newton?" he asks; softly, eyes wide. "Is it—?"

"It's me," Newt confirms; swallows, thickly. Watches as Hermann draws in a sharp breath. "Are…" he hesitates. "Are you okay?"

Hermann doesn't speak, for a moment; then he nods, slightly; the motion making his collar slip down, exposing the dark thumb-prints on his pale skin. Newt drags in a shaky breath. "I'm alright," Hermann replies, moving closer, until he's close enough to reach out and touch Newt.

"I'm…" _relieved,_ he doesn't say; _I was so fucking scared._ "Glad to know," he tacks on instead; offers a half-attempt at a smile.

Hermann doesn't say anything, for a moment; then: "Move your arm, please."

"Dude," Newt says; raises a brow. "I'm literally strapped down. That makes no sense."

Hermann hums; sets his cane against the wall and holds himself up against the side of the chair; begins undoing the buckles. " _Hermann?_ " Newt says; sharply. "Dude, what are you—?"

"Doing what I should've done as soon as medical came back with sufficiently human-baseline scans," Hermann replies, and tugs the strap away from his wrist; starts on the next one. "Come on, Newton, help me get the rest of them off."

Newt hesitates. "Hermann…"

 _You think you can go back after this?_ the Precursors snarl; twist against the barriers of his mind, too weak to do much more than shout. _You know exactly what will happen; don't pretend like you don't care._

"I didn't say I don't care," Newt murmurs; breathes in a deep breath. "I just loved them more. And I still do, and I haven't stopped this whole time, not after year one of your bullshit torture, not after year two, or five, or ten, and I am _never_ going to stop. Because you're right—and you almost fucking had me! I was _this_ close to giving up, no joke! I mean, I can't lie to you guys, you're in my head. But that just means you know exactly how fucked you are.

"Your plan was going so, _so_ good when you had me isolated, and if you had just kept everybody I care about away, I probably would have ended up just laying down and…I dunno, fizzling away? However that works? But! Guess we'll never know now. Because guess what you stupid, hack-job, B-list, bratty-ass little bourgeoise pieces of dollar-store gum on the wall of a CVS pharmacy? You can do whatever you want to me—that's fine. But you fucked up major. You went after my goddamn planet. And, maybe more importantly, you went after my _family._ "

He stops; chest rising hard and fast as he draws in breath. Hermann's giving him a worried look. "Newton?" he asks, "are you alright?"

"Yeah," Newt says; a bit shaky; reaches over to deal with the clasp on his other wrist. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"Let's," Hermann says, and a smile spreads across his face.


	114. 114

**unlikely pairing**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""Doctor Geiszler?" one of the students asks, wide-eyed, "are you okay?"

"Y—yeah, I'm fine," he says, and shivers. "Ugh, I need to talk to someone about the AC in here…"

"You dropped something," another points out; points to the ground in front of Newt.

He looks down; the metal chain glints in the LED lighting. "Oh," he says, and picks it up, fastening it around his neck. "Thanks, Sam. My husband would kill me if I lost it," he laughs."

* * *

Newt wears it on a chain around his neck; tight enough that it doesn't dangle much, for fear of entanglement or endangerment during a lab, but loose enough that it's not uncomfortable, the metal of the band catching the light when he pops the top buttons on his collar.

Hermann, as is traditional, wears it on his ring finger; smiles fondly whenever Newt reminds him of it.

"You put it there," he says; "I'm not taking it off, Newton."

"You _sap,_ " Newt shoots back; grins, a touch, and squeezes his hand.

Hermann hums and takes a bite of his toast. "Your tie is crooked," he comments absently; finishes off his toast and stands. Newt stands with him, stills as he reaches to adjust the skinny black tie. "There," he says, and smiles.

"Thanks, dude," Newt says; smiles back. "You're the best. See you at eight?"

"I'll put bread-sticks on," Hermann confirms, and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. "Don't terrorise the students too much, Newton."

"I'd never!" Newt protests. "They love me!" Hermann gives him a flat look; Newt sighs. "Okay, fine," he says, "I won't 'terrorise' the students."

He doesn't.

Much.

Just, you know, sometimes he forgets that he _can't_ do the same things in the classroom that he can in a lab; hence the reason he's dripping wet and wearing a set of clothes dug up from the bottom of his desk drawers after an impromptu decontamination shower halfway through the last lesson.

The students, at least, don't seem too upset about getting to leave early.

The next batch of students, however, have to deal with a blue-lipped, wet-haired Newt, who's wearing something that may once have been a sweater and a pair of home-made jorts.

"Doctor Geiszler?" one of the students asks, wide-eyed, "are you okay?"

"Y—yeah, I'm fine," he says, and shivers. "Ugh, I need to talk to someone about the AC in here…"

"You dropped something," another points out; points to the ground in front of Newt.

He looks down; the metal chain glints in the LED lighting. "Oh," he says, and picks it up, fastening it around his neck. "Thanks, Sam. My husband would _kill_ me if I lost it," he laughs.

A murmur ripples through the seated students; some pick their heads up off of the desks. "Husband?" someone in the back questions. "You have a _husband?_ "

"Yeah," Newt says. "Love him—he's the _best._ Total dork, and he makes a mean pumpkin pie to boot—" he checks his watch. "Okay, enough of that—time to get onto the _actual_ lesson stuff…"

* * *

Lunch, as usual, is taken in Hermann's office; Newt eats a pb&j while Hermann cuts his own sandwich into pieces, spearing each bite with his fork, the bright green of lettuce disappearing in a trice.

They get into an argument first about the sweater (it's Hermann's, apparently), then about kaiju cloning before Hermann finishes eating; storm out of the room and shout at each other in the hallway.

"—well _you_ are an idiotic, self-absorbed—!"

"—moron who fucking worships math—!" Newt shouts back; fists clenched.

Hermann's beet-red—face all purple and splotchy, and he opens his mouth to keep shouting, only to be cut off by a stern, " _Doctors!_ "

They both turn; Newt gives a half-attempt at an innocent smile, but Doctor Smith just stares at him flatly. "You're blocking the hallway," she says, "and causing a disruption."

"Apologies," Hermann mutters, and turns on his heel, walking away.

Newt raises his chin. "Sorry," he says, with a glare after Hermann, and calls, "you're _wrong,_ for the record, Hermann!"

"I am _not!_ " Hermann shouts back.

" _Geiszler!_ " Doctor Smith snaps.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," Newt huffs.

* * *

"The students spent the lesson pestering me about my husband," Hermann informs him over dinner, a few months later.

Newt hums. "You mean you started talking about me and they were, naturally, curious as to what sort of man could have captured the heart of _the_ Doctor Gottlieb?" he teases. Hermann's ears redden.

"Hush up, you," he mumbles. "And for the record, Newton, that is _not_ what happened. Someone noticed my ring, is all."

"…the ring you've worn for the last four years," Newt says; raises a brow. "Sure, man, whatever you say."

"I—!" Hermann splutters; throws up his hands. "You are truly awful," he says.

"But you love me anyway," Newt shoots back.

"Against my better judgement—yes," Hermann sniffs.

* * *

There's shouting, suddenly, from outside; Hermann pulls his door open. Students rush down the hallway outside; pull him along until, finally, he ends up in the centre of a crowd outside; the sirens of an ambulance loud in his ears.

"Excuse me?" he calls, "sorry—what's going on?" he shouts.

"It's Doctor Geiszler," someone says. "He's been in an accident—"

Hermann's gaze goes black for a split second. "Newton?" he shouts; desperate; shoves people aside. "Let me through—let me through, damn it, that's my _husband!_ "

The throng of people parts, and he staggers through; rushes to Newt's side, grips his shoulder. "Newton!" he gasps; relief crashing upon him when the other's eyes flicker and he gives a moan of pain.

"Jesus," he hisses, "lighten up on that side, will you, Herms? That hurts."

"Sorry." Hermann snatches his hand away; swallows. Newton shifts slightly on the stretcher.

(He remembers, suddenly, so clearly that it's almost as if he's there again, Newton whirling around on him after a meeting with Marshal Pentecost. "What were you _doing?_ " he hisses. "Why'd you shoot me down? We both know my ideas are sound, Hermann—you could _help me—_ "

"Trying to _save_ you from—"

"From _what?_ " Newt barks, "myself? Because the only solution to _that,_ Hermann, is to let me _die—_ I'm never going to stop throwing myself at things head-first, alright? Because that's the only way I can get things to work!"

He spins on his heel; stomps away down the hall.

Hermann comes in the four days later to find him hooked up to a Drift-interface machine built from stolen scraps; holds him tight to his chest, tears streaming down his face, as he seizes.)

"Are you alright?" he asks, instead; the fear still sour on his tongue, bile rising in his throat. "Are you—"

"Hey, hey, hey," Newton interrupts; reaches out to clasp Hermann's hand. "I'm fine, Herms, I swear, okay? It's all good, alright?"

"Sorry," Hermann says again; lets out a shuddering breath. "I just—"

"I know," Newt says, "it's alright, man. I just took a little spill and dislocated my shoulder, I'm fine, I swear."

"I hate you," Hermann breathes; shakily; presses a palm to Newton's cheek, soft; "don't ever do that to me again, alright?"

Newton gives a small smile. "I'll try not to," he says. "Now c'mon, dude, help get me up."

"The ambulance—"

"There was a car-crash down the street," Newt says. "And the stretcher's from the room next-door. They do a nursing program."

"Ah," Hermann says; and breathes a sigh of relief.

"Also," Newton says, "you kinda just told everyone we're married," and watches smugly as Hermann blushes and splutters.


	115. 115

**fine line**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newton Geiszler is Hermann's enemy (or, at least, that's what he tries to convince himself).

(He's not very good at being rivals, considering the biology student's irritatingly attracting and they wind up necking outside a club.)"

* * *

Hermann Gottlieb is an aspiring doctor of physics: fact.

Hermann Gottlieb is rivals with Newton Geiszler, a larger-than life aspiring biologist; their rivalry is the stuff of rumour; people will clear out of a room faster than animals fleeing a flash-flood the instant they begin to speak to each other: fact.

Newton Geiszler, however, is also across the room from Hermann, sitting on the edge of his bar-stool, back nearly hitting the edge of the bar-counter, surrounded by a group of older students, laughing.

He looks…calm, almost, for once.

It's a good look on him; smooths out the pre-mature lines dug into his skin around his mouth, and the furrow of his brow.

He's dressed casually; more-so than usual, black skinny-jeans ripped, make-up darkening his eyes, and he looks like he's having _fun._

Hermann bites his lip; bites back the urge to go over there and talk to him, because that will end in an argument no matter how it starts off; it always morphs in to an argument with them—Newton has the unique ability to make Hermann's blood boil, pounding in his ears, like no other.

Sometimes, it makes him wonder what happened to the Newton Geiszler who wrote to him for four years before they both ended up at the same uni; the Newton Geiszler who was passionate but immaculate in his writing, who seemed, genuinely, to care about Hermann.

He swallows thickly; orders another glass of water and switches his gaze to where the group of his peers who grudgingly invited him along are dancing; refuses to let it drift back to Newton.

* * *

It's a different bar, this time; somehow, Hermann allowed himself to get dragged along again, despite preferring to remain in his room, studying, or simply relaxing with a good book.

Newton is here, too, again; with the same group of students from last time, but his laugh seems— _strained,_ and when his eyes lock with Hermann's, momentarily, across the room, there's a bit of panic in them. Hermann's bar-stool skitters across the floor, his cane hitting the ground, a rapid _one-two_ as he strides over.

"Newton," he greets with an easy smile that barely hides his unease; the others, much taller, crowd in on the two of them, menacing expressions on their faces. "Could you come with me for a moment—?"

" _We're_ talking to him," one of the students snaps; leaning towards Hermann, towering above him. "Get lost, dude."

Newton gives a nervous laugh. "Guys, guys, calm down," he says; voice high, and it cracks on the last word. "Look, man—I gotta go, okay? Herms needs me for…" He sends Hermann a searching look, and when Hermann doesn't answer fast enough, another one of the students scoffs.

"Just give us the answers and we'll be on our way, freak," he spits.

Hermann's nails dig into his palm, and Newton catches sight of his knuckles, white on his cane; holds up a hand. "Alright, alright," he says, "just—lemme talk to Herms for a sec, 'kay? And then you can have your answer."

The students crowding them exchange glances; finally, the first one nods. "Alright," he says, "but make it quick."

Newt lets out a sigh; beckons Hermann. "Closer," he hisses, when Hermann stops an arm's length away. Hermann, frowning, obliges; presses close enough that Newton's breath ghosts across his skin, rasping in his ear. " _Run,_ " he says, and shoves Hermann, stumbling, away. "Gentlemen," he says, turning back to the others. "Here's your answer: gentlemen: suck my dick!"

Hermann barely makes it out of the way in time; the students surge forward with a roar.

"Newton!" he shouts, as the other disappears.

A moment later, he catches sight of a tattoo-covered arm; lunges forward and grabs it, pulling for dear life, and drags Newton out.

"Jesus _fuck,_ " Newton whines, rubbing his arm as they make a hasty getaway outside. "Did you have to grip me that hard?"

"Did _you_ have to provoke them?" Hermann counters, panting a bit; glares.

"Well why did _you_ have to interfere?"

" _I was trying to help!_ " Hermann shouts.

For a second; silence; then, Newton begins to laugh, braces his arm against the brick of the wall; tears streaming from his eyes as he shakes. "Dude," he gasps, "dude, oh my—oh my _god._ We're arguing about _this?_ "

The irritation that's been building in Hermann evaporates, and he, too, begins to smile. "Well," he says, and then, again, having nothing better to say; "well."

They stand there for a moment; casting quick glances at each other. Newton's eye-shadow is deep, deep blue tonight, and he's added glitter, the colours highlighting his eyes; the street-lights glint off of his glasses lenses. He looks— _fetching,_ suddenly.

(Hermann Gottlieb finds Newton Geiszler irrationally attractive, and always has: fact.)

For a movement, he breathes; heavy, mind racing and yet so, so blank. Newton's gaze catches his; slips, down, catching for a moment before flickering back up. His eyes are dark and wide. Hermann swallows.

"Hey," Newton says; softly. "You've got—" he gestures to the side of his mouth.

Hermann raises a hand; scrubs at the skin.

"No, here, let me—" Newton reaches up; swipes his finger just above Hermann's top lip. "…there," he breathes. Hermann blinks at him, dazed.

"I…"

"I think you're adorable and I'm super into you," Newton blurts.

"…what?"

Newt pulls his hand back; gives a nervous little laugh. "Uh, yeah," he says; drags a hand through his hair. "That's…" he gives a wave with both of his hands; fingers fluttering, drawing invisible little shapes.

"Why… _now?_ " Hermann asks.

Newt laughs again. "Now?" he says. "Nah, man, since like…ever."

 _Well,_ Hermann thinks. _That's news to_ me.

"Say something?" Newt asks.

"I like the makeup," Hermann says, instead. "Brings out your eyes."

"…are you saying that because you're freaked out or because you like my eyes?"

"Why not _both?_ " Hermann retorts; the distance between them seems to be disappearing at an exponential rate, one gravitating towards the other like magnets.

"Fuck you, that's why," Newton replies. "Also, if you don't have any complaints, I kinda want to kiss you."

"Good!" Hermann bites out, and, in a move far more bold than he's possibly ever made before in his life, grabs Newton by the front of his shirt and drags him into a messy, off-kilter kiss, the other's fingers scrabbling for purchase.

"Fuck you," Newton hisses against his lips; teeth digging in a bit too much to be pleasant, and shoves him back against the wall (mindful, still, somehow, _always,_ of his leg); presses closer, and then he's not speaking, not anymore; hands cradling Hermann's face, and Hermann's is still gripping the front of his shirt.

Newton pulls back a bit, and Hermann says, in a breath, "We should go somewhere less—"

"Hard?" Newt supplies, fingers trailing over Hermann's jaw.

"Stop it," Hermann snaps, and pulls his fingers out of the fabric of Newton's white shirt to grab his hand.

"Oh, shit, sorry," Newt says, immediately; begins to pull away. "Sorry, man, am I going to fast? Or is it something else?"

"No, no—" Hermann stops; bites his lip. "I've never been with anyone before," he admits. "I don't…know what to do."

"Ohh," Newt says. "Okay. Well, we can totally take it slow, that's chill—just go back to my place and order a pizza and watch a stupid movie, if you want, and maybe make out a bit, if you wanna…"

"No—yes, no, I'd like that," Hermann says; lets Newt's hand go; reaches, instead, out to the other's face. "Oh," he says, "I smudged your makeup…"

Newton laughs. "Hey, don't worry, man," he says, "it's no big deal, alright?"

"…alright," Hermann says; dubious.

"My place is just down the street a bit," Newton says; "uh, if you want to."

"Alright," Hermann agrees; grinning a bit, and Newton pulls back; offers a hand, fingers locking between Hermann's. "Lead on, then, Doctor Geiszler."

"Aww," Newton says, "cute."


	116. 116

**don't say you do**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt has a headache; Hermann helps.

(And maybe they're in love; and that's _something_ , at the end of the world)"

* * *

"Hermann," Newton calls, and then, a moment later, when Hermann doesn't look up, again; " _Hermann._ "

From where he's sprawled out on the floor, he can see the other's lips twist into a frown; hand stilling its course on the chalk-board, eyes flickering side-to-side. "Yes, Newton?" he sighs; resignation. It's not resentful, really; Newt hasn't interrupted anything big; they're in a period of stillness, now; no kaiju for at least two more months.

"I'm _bored,_ " Newt says; staring at the ceiling; sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes to look at it.

"…and you want me to do _what_ about this, exactly?" Hermann asks.

"Uh, _entertain_ me, _duh,_ " Newt retorts.

There's a moment of silence; then, a huffing laugh. "Newton," Hermann says; and this time, he does stop writing. "Newton, you're a grown man. Entertain yourself."

Newt scowls. "Yeah but I want _you_ to entertain me," he says; petulant. "It's not the same, dude. We're not dying of kaiju, but _I'm_ going to die of _boredom._ "

"Oh, do quit being dramatic," Hermann snaps, but after a moment, there's the scrape of the ladder; the soft _thump_ of Hermann's good foot hitting the ground; then, the tap of his cane. "You shouldn't lay on the ground," he says, "who _knows_ what's been there."

"Uh, mostly kaiju guts," Newt says, with a shrug. "Anyway, I moped earlier. It's pretty clean." He discreetly nudges the small piece of kaiju-something-or-other beneath the table with his foot. Hermann sighs.

"At least move to the sofa," he says, "it's hard for me to bend at this angle."

Newt grimaces. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that," he apologises, "just, uh, give me a min. I gotta conquer gravity."

That gets a stifled laugh; the sound making the corners of Newt's lips tilt up.

"Thank you, Newton," Hermann says, and takes a seat as well once Newt makes it to the sofa; sitting properly, the uptight fucker; still, he doesn't say anything about the fact that Newt's taking up like, 80% of the sofa, so. "Come here," he says, tapping Newt's forehead, "I can practically feel your headache, Newton. You've been clenching your teeth _horribly._ "

"Thanks," Newt mutters; slightly bashfully; shifts so his head rests in Hermann's lap; sighs, eyes flickering shut as Hermann digs cold fingers into the base of his skull. "I think I miss you," he says; quietly; after a few moments.

Hermann hums. "I haven't gone anywhere, darling," he returns, fingers working steadily.

"We never get this anymore," Newt says. "Just…to _be,_ you know? Like, we spend all day together, but we don't really…we're not really _together_ with each other, you know?"

"Ah," Hermann says; and then falls into silence; thinking, Newt can tell, by the way he worries his lip; contemplative.

They don't talk, really; for a bit, just Hermann's fingers digging into Newt's skin; the ache slowly bleeding away; silence, comfortably. Just for a bit.

Newt thinks about the war waging outside; thinks about all the people they've lost, the ones who died in the attacks, the civilians and the rangers; thinks about those that have died because there wasn't a cure fast enough, and the Blue killed them; slowly, slowly.

He thinks about silences; the silence when you stand over a grave, the solemnity that descends; wonders if there will be a grave to bury him in, a body to bury, anyone left to bury him. Hopes, quickly, quietly, without voicing it, that there will be. He doesn't want to be the last one left. He's kind of a coward like that.

(Not Hermann. Hermann would probably be the last; would drive himself into the ground to save everyone else, and then if— _when,_ maybe—the kaiju have killed everyone else, he'll be the last; without anyone left to give him a burial, to read an epithet; to wish him off.

Hermann would do that.

Hermann is not a coward.

He's maybe the bravest person Newt knows.)

"We were supposed to be Earth's great hope, its fucking shooting star," he says; instead. "But it feels really fucking dark up here on this pedestal."

Hermann stops; for a moment. "No," he says; starting, again. "We're nothing of the sort, Newton. We're just people trying our best. We're no better or worse than anyone else, really. Also, your analogy is flawed, given that as the higher you go, the darker it gets, given that space is a void."

Newt huffs. "Shut up with your logic," he grumbles, and then, "fine, maybe—darkest before the dawn, or whatever the fuck." Thinks about that, a bit; hums a few bars of _No Children,_ both because it's been stuck in his head all day and because it fucking _fits,_ and then he gets partway through ( _our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises/we're pretty sure they're all wrong_ ) and stops because actually, it's fucking depressing.

This time, when Hermann laughs, it sounds…sad, almost. Mournful, maybe, though for what, Newt doesn't know. "I'm fairly certain it's darkest after the sun sets," he says. "After the light of the sun's been put out."

"That's depressing," Newt says, flatly, "and beside the point."

"'Shut up with your logic'?" Hermann asks; raises a brow, teasingly.

"Yep," Newt says, "and keep at that, dude, my headache's almost all gone."

* * *

They're standing together; here, in front of the still-cooling body of Otachi's baby; the bustle of the city mere metres away from them, and the beeping of the machines around them; caution and hazmat tape going up like a toddler's over-eager attempt at wrapping a gift.

"We might die," Newt says; quite frankly, and with more than a little bit of nasallyness to it, since his nose keeps bleeding at intervals.

"We might," Hermann agrees, and takes the pons headset from him; snaps it on and adjusts the straps. "But…if we do, it shall be together."

 _Oh,_ Newt thinks; _Oh, okay,_ and he smiles at Hermann hesitantly; takes a deep breath; begins the countdown.

Hits the button.

( _you are coming down with me_

 _hand in unlovable hand_ )


	117. 117

**dr. newton geiszler and the no good very bad awful attempt at planning a birthday party of two (2)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: **"Newt's on a mission; specifically, to give Hermann an _unforgettable_ birthday."

* * *

In his defence, he hadn't meant for it to get to this point.

Still, the reality is, he's standing in the middle of the lab, streamers of varying colours of streamers strewn about the room, some melting in the—neutralised!—k-blue that's on the floor and tables, and there's a thin layer of glitter covering everything, glinting as the light from the strip-LEDs on the ceiling hits it.

Of course, it's then that the door handle begins to turn.

A moment later, Hermann steps in; stops, wide-eyed, and stares at Newt, jaw slack; takes in the mess around him. "... _Newton?_ "

"It's not what you think!" Newt exclaims.

* * *

It starts when Hermann lets it slip that he's never had a birthday cake. They're discussing something—civilly, for once—, and Newt says, off-handed, "Oh, man, I remember that time my dad made me a Frankenstein's Monster cake for my birthday...that was _sick._ "

Hermann blinks at him. "A what now?" he questions.

"Mostly fondant," Newt admits, "but I was like, nine, so I didn't really care."

"Why would your father do such a thing?" Hermann asks, "sacrifice his time for that—why not just buy you a nice gift?"

Newt stops for a moment; stares at him. "'Cause it was my birthday?" he says, slowly.

Hermann hums; expression doubtful, and the cogs in Newt's brain creak into action, turning until the dust puffs up and disperses. "Hermann," he says, "have you never had a birthday cake?"

"That's hardly a pertinent question," Hermann says; stiffly, avoiding his gaze.

"Holy shit," Newt says softly, "you've never—?"

"No," Hermann snaps, "I've never seen a reason. Please drop it, Newton, we have work to attend to."

"Alright," Newt says; after a moment; grudging, but his brain's running light-speed as Hermann returns to his chalk-boards, the scrape of chalk lending to a white noise. On the outside, Newt's putting vials into the hand-cranked centrifuge, but in the dark corridors of his mind, a plan begins to form.

The plan—or, rather, The Plan—, is simple: give Hermann the bang-up party that he deserves. It's simple—there's just one glaring roadblock.

Newt doesn't know when Hermann's birthday is.

One would think that spending four years as penpals, and then almost ten years working together would mean Newt would know when Hermann's birthday is, but no; Hermann's always been uptight about his private life, even when they were on good terms, and that particular detail was one he had never disclosed.

Newt _could_ just ask Hermann...

Nah.

* * *

Attempt one: Tendo.

Tendo, being the Chief Communications Officer, is also privy to a shit-ton of other stuff, like gossip, and thus, the perfect person to turn to for this—it's not a confidential detail, and it won't hurt Hermann in any way if Tendo tells him.

There's only one problem.

"Sorry, bud," Tendo says, with a shrug, "I have no idea."

"You _what?_ " Newt whisper-shrieks, throwing up his hands, "dude how can you _not—_ "

"I don't," Tendo says, again, "look, I'd tell you if I did, man, but I have no clue, sorry."

Newt sighs. "Nah, it's fine," he says, turning to walk away, "I'll just...figure it out myself."

"Best of luck," Tendo calls after him.

"Thanks," Newt mutters, "I think I'll need it."

Attempt two: Pentecost.

"And why, exactly, do you want this information, Mr. Geiszler," Pentecost asks; voice not betraying a single though; face blank.

Newt swallows and offers up a tentative smile. "Uh, I want to surprise Her—I mean, Doctor Gottlieb? Like, for his birthday, you know, do something nice..."

"Absolutely not," Pentecost says, "your idea of _surprise_ is _not_ a good one. Now get out of my office."

"Yes_sir,_" Newt squeaks, and backs out.

Attempt three: this one involves a few different steps.

Step one: access the database of HK Shatterdome employees and add as many numbers as he possibly can to his phone (totally legally!).

Step two: add every single contact on his phone to a single groupchat. Rename groupchat "Newt's Surprise Party" (not a lie!), text a single cryptic sentence ("wait and see ;)") and revel for a moment in the ensuing panic.

Step three: use said panic as a cover to distract the techs and sneak into the slightly-more classified (read: highly classified) records. Locate Hermann's file and get a quick photo.

Step four: escape without detection.

All in all, it turns out _splendidly,_ if Newt does say so himself.

He pulls out his phone later that night and scrolls through camera roll.

 _June 9th._

He smiles to himself.

* * *

He figures Hermann probably doesn't want anything _too_ big, so he just orders a few (dozen) streamers, a (few) bottles of glitter, a (large) ice-cream cake decorated with triangles, and exactly thirty-five of those trick sparkler candles that springs back to light after you blow it out.

Everything's going great— _fantastic,_ actually; on the ninth, he sends Hermann off downtown on a wild-goose-chase for something he just oh so _desperately_ needs in order to do _work,_ and then gets to decorating.

The cake goes in the freezer, though he has to shove aside a few specimens to make space for it, and the candles barely clear the top, _but_ it all works out in the end.

He begins to throw up streamers.

That's when things go horribly, terribly wrong.

He must've missed that puddle of slime somehow, even though he could have sworn he mopped the lab sparkling clean, and as he begins to put up the streamers, he's not paying attention to where his feet are landing. Almost in slow-motion, he steps in the puddle of semi-congealed kaiju _something,_ flails his arms, sending streamers everywhere, grabs onto a table blindly in an attempt to balance himself, falls, anyway, bringing a tray of kaiju samples crashing to the ground as well as knocking the glass (fuck, why did he put it into a _glass_ jar?) jar of glitter to the ground, where it shatters, sending up a cloud of blue glitter that leaves Newt hacking, eyes watering.

His knees sting as they hit the ground, and for a moment, he can't do anything but lay there and try and get his bearings.

When he stands up, gripping the table for support, he takes stock of the room.

It's a disaster.

That's when Hermann opens the door.

"... _Newton?_ "

"It's not what you think!"

"Then what," Hermann says, slowly, taking in Newt's form, "pray tell, _is_ it?"

"Uh," Newt grimaces. "Well..." he sighs; slowly makes his way over to the freezer. "Happy birthday," he says, lamely, turning to offer up the cake. "Uh. Sorry it didn't exactly turn out the way I imagined..."

Hermann blinks at him slowly for a moment. "...birthday?" he asks, "I—oh, I hadn't realised..."

"Well, we can, uh, just forget about it if you want—"

"No, no, no!" Hermann exclaims. "That's—oh, Newton, that's rather sweet of you to go to such lengths."

"Oh," Newt says. "Um. Do you...want cake?"

Hermann takes a tentative step closer; then another, until they're close enough to touch. "I think I would," he says, smiling warmly, "and then we can clean up this mess you made."

"Y—yeah, sounds good," Newt says, and his cheeks hurt from how hard he's grinning.

(Operation status: _unmitigated success._ )


	118. 118

**monster**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: **"two times it was the Precursors, and one time it was Newton"

* * *

Newton is, to him, a nuisance.

Newton is probably a nuisance to a great many people with how he rushes through life at a dizzying pace and doesn't listen to _anyone_ even if it turns out badly.

So yes; Newton is a nuisance.

He is, and always has been, a nuisance, but—Hermann will admit, grudgingly, that he's very fond of Newton.

And now, as Ranger Lambert secures Newton in the cell, his jaw bruised and shirt ripped and bloodied (is it his blood? Hermann fears he knows the answer), he is not a nuisance.

He is Hermann's entire _world._

And Hermann—Hermann takes a half-step back; inhales sharply; does not know how to process this realisation.

(He's never really known how to deal with his emotions beyond ignoring them; how the hell is he meant to deal with this—the knowledge that his emotions for Newton are far deeper than mere friendship— _have_ been far deeper than that for almost two decades?)

Pentecost, by his side, catches sight of his expression. "Though, huh?" he says, surprisingly soft. "I know you guys were close back in the day—it must be hard to see him become a monster."

"He's _not._ "

The words sting as he spits them out; harsher than intended, and Pentecost's eyes widen. "He's not," Hermann says; again, more heavily.

"He killed—"

" _Newton,_ " he says; softly, "is not responsible for the crimes committed by the Precursors, Ranger. This is not something on which I will consider opposing points of view."

The door opens, and Lambert joins them. "He's starting to wake up," he says.

Pentecost nods. "Right," he says, "Gottlieb—do _not_ try and see him."

Hermann works his jaw. "Fine," he says, finally, "I'll adhere to your request—for now."

* * *

He gets in; eventually. There's only so much paperwork and pestering they can take, Hermann figures.

As usual, he's right.

The door slides open silently, and Hermann enters; the hair on his arms and the nape off his neck rising at the sudden drop in temperature.

They raise his head; blink eyes that seem almost to glow electric blue. "Gottlieb. _Hello._ "

Hermann swallows; takes in his form.

They've changed him out of his suit; not he wears a thick white shirt and a pair of sweatpants. The hair though—it's messy; unkempt, and the sight brings back a flood of nostalgia.

"Precursors," he says, "I'm not here for you."

"Oh, right, you think you can save him," they sneer. "Well newsflash—he's gone. Or—well, he's become us. We're him, Gottlieb—all that's left. Accept it."

"Newton," he says, ignoring their words; steps closer. "Newton— _Newt,_ please hear me—none of this is your fault. I will find a way to get you back—"

The Precursors lunge forward's; suddenly, stop, quivering, teeth a mere hairbreadth from Hermann's throat; bared. "Scream," they snarl, lips pulled back. "Be _afraid,_ Gottlieb."

"I cannot," he says; jaw set. "I will not."

How could Hermann ever fear the Precursors when it's Newton's soft face dotted with freckles that Hermann never quite managed to finish counting staring back at him?

(How could Hermann fear the Precursors when he fears, far more, the dawning dread that he's failed Newton for the past decade?

How can he fear them when all he can think is that they're so cowardly they twisted and manipulated and crushed the soul of Newton Geiszler in an attempt to conquer Earth? How can he fear them when he knows that Newton—brave, brave Newton—is still there; still fighting?)

* * *

This time, they've moved him to a larger cell—in part good behaviour and in part Hermann pulling every string he thought corps aids him.

They're still there; shifting, restless, behind Newton's eyes; baring his teeth when Hermann walks in.

He doesn't greet them this time; ignores their frustrated hiss of breath and instead walks towards Newton.

"I brought some photographs," he says; quietly. "If—when— _if_ you want to look at them...of you and I. Together—"

He stumbles back; cane slipping from his grip; back hitting the wall, head aching, and it's a moment before he realises that he'd gotten too close and they'd slammed Newton's head against his; watch him with a sharp smile as his teeth clench with pain.

The photo album's fallen to the floor; splaying photos out on the ground. Hermann takes a moment; breathes.

Begins to gather up the fallen photos.

"Fuck off," the Precursors growl.

"I'll be back in a week," Hermann says; instead; softly.

* * *

This time, the other doesn't look at him when he enters. "Newton," Hermann greets; because he knows that the biologist is there; deserves to know that Hermann is here for him. "I, ah," he stops. "I missed you," he admits, finally. "I've _missed_ you, Newton."

Silence; expected, and yet, still, the tide of disappointment rises high, and higher; wets the insides of his mind and leaves behind the bitter aftertaste of sea-salt.; Hermann licks his lips. Perhaps today is a day of silence.

(They usually are; he knows that. But he wishes he didn't; wishes he didn't and in part wishes that he could stop hoping because what is hope doing but tearing his heart apart with sharp claws?)

He turns—

There's the smallest sound; barely the whisper of a whisper, but in the silence of the room, it echoes like a gunshot.

Hermann turns slowly; barely daring to believe it.

Newton's face, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, s—tares back. " _Newton,_ " he breathes.

"...hey," Newton croaks, and then—

And then Hermann's across the room, and he's cupping Newton's face in his hands, and he's crying, _he's_ crying, his tears hot on his cheeks and his tears hot on Hermann's skin, and he leans forward, leans into Hermann as much as he can and Hermann swallows; the emotion thick in his throat.

"I m—missed you, too," Newton chokes out; shudderingly, the words half-muffled, and tears track down, spilling forth and down and down and _down_ his cheeks, down and down and _down his,_ and yet, all there is is _joy;_ stark and all-consuming and he grins, and _he_ grins back.

"Newton," Hermann says; again, and this time, Newton answers.


	119. 119

**stellar love**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""We're going camping," Hermann says.

Newt gives him a flat stare. " _Camping?_ " he says.

"Trust me, you're just as surprised as I am," Hermann shoots back. "Now come help me load these things into the car, Newton."

* * *

The thing is; Newton Geiszler has always been larger than life; has always been the one to plunge head-first into danger with a smile and loudly proclaim, "I'm gonna be a rockstar!", his nose bloodied and eyes blood-shot and his nails painted in chipped black nail-polish bought from the only convenience store still open.

The thing is; Newton Geiszler died in the streets on Hong Kong ten years ago, died in the lab ten years ago, died ten years ago, died; is dead; and now all that remains of him is an empty shell that bears his name, the memories of ten years of horror, and who's eyes are haunted.

The thing is; all of this is untrue, so untrue, and yet, Hermann can feel these convictions echo through the Drift bond between them; coil around Newton's mind and sink in, like liquid into a sponge.

Newton is saved; Newton is freed.

Newton is just as caged as ever.

No longer does he have bursts of passion, eyes glinting as he speaks, rapid-fire; nor does he turn up his music to near-deafening levels.

Mostly, now, he just…sleeps.

Eats, some, when Hermann manages to convince him to; emerges occasionally. Mostly, though, he stays in his room, sleeping. He's been pardoned of all charges, and is free as the wind, legally, and yet he can barely seem to bring himself to breath.

It breaks Hermann's heart to see.

So: then, this is how it begins; his attempt to bring Newton back to life.

"We should go to the park," he says over diner; Newton picking at his plate, but awake and out of his room, finally, blinks at him slowly.

"…what?" he says, after a moment; staring at Hermann.

"Park," Hermann says; chews on the inside of his lip. "Er—perhaps we could go together? At night, I mean—it's been a long while since I had time to see the stars." He's rambling, an he knows it—this is the bit of him that's so wholly Newton it makes his heart _ache._

Oh; this; how Newton looks at him like he's said something alien, too strange to comprehend; sits stock-still. "Why?" he says, "it's not like you _need_ to."

"I—" Hermann swallows. "Perhaps you're right," he says; gaze drifting back down to his hands, clasped tight in his lap. "No—forget it altogether, it's a foolish notion."

They go back to eating in silence.

Still, though, the thought stays with him; at the back of his mind, late at night, when Newton's whimpers of pain and thrashing drift through the thin wall between them, but there's nothing Hermann can do because Newton keeps his door locked at night; and so he lays there, emotion thick in his throat and thinks, _God, I just want you to know peace._

Once, when Newton's whimpers turn to screams, Hermann falls upon the door and forces it open; gathers Newton in his arms until, finally, he stops shaking and falls into a fitful sleep against him, fingers dug into the fabric of his night-shirt.

The next morning, he wakes in his own bed, and Newton's room has a deadbolt installed.

It's then that he finally breaks; spends a day planning for a trip; packs a basket full of fruits and sandwich materials and those disgusting pop-tarts Newton love(d) so much and two thermoses, one of tea and one of coffee; two sleeping-bags and a tent.

"We're going camping," Hermann says.

Newt gives him a flat stare. " _Camping?_ " he says.

"Trust me, you're just as surprised as I am," Hermann shoots back. "Now come help me load these things into the car, Newton."

It's…something; sitting together, silently, so close one could reach out and take the other's hand in his, and around them, the soft sound of classical music emanates from the speakers. About halfway through, Hermann stops the car at a rest-stop; Newton elects to wait in the car.

When Hermann gets back, the other's eating pretzels; expression flicking to panicked terror when he catches sight of Hermann. "I—"

"It's quite alright, Newton," Hermann reassures, "I was merely about to ask if you'd like some water."

"…oh," Newton says; after a moment, soft; and his gaze drops from Hermann's. "Yes, please. They're…kinda salty."

Hermann huffs. "Here," he says, "don't drink it all in one go, or you'll make yourself sick."

"Thanks," Newton mumbles, and takes the water-bottle.

* * *

They forgo the tent in the end; it's not too cold to just lay on the grass in their sleeping-bags, the basket between them, watching the sunset fade. Hermann fails in his goal of not sneaking glances at Newton—but then, really, how _could_ he, when Newton looks, for perhaps the first time in a decade, at ease.

They drift off to sleep.

Hermann wakes in a cold sweat to Newton's cries piercing to silent night.

"Newton? Newton!" He scrambles over; shakes the other awake. "Newton, say something—"

"Hermann," Newton gasps; clawing at the front of his shirt, eyes wild. "Hermann, I—they're _in_ me, Hermann, I can't—fuck, Hermann, I'm a monster, you need to get away—"

Hermann swallows, thickly; tightens his grip on the other. "Hush, Newton," he murmurs, "you're alright. Everything's fine, now, dear."

"I'm a monster," Newton hiccoughs; clinging tightly back, "Hermann, fuck, I—" he stops; sobs into Hermann's chest, head bowed.

"Oh, Newton," Hermann murmurs, "even if that were true, you never met a monster you couldn't love."

There's a startled laugh. "That's the bit of me you got, huh," Newton manages, "my love for monsters?"

"Of course," Hermann replies, and rubs calming circles on his back until his shoulders stop shaking.

"Tell me about the stars," Newton says; suddenly, and Hermann starts.

"Pardon?"

Newton coughs; sits up, pulling away from Hermann, face cast half in shadow. "You said you liked the stars," he says. "I—nevermind, forget it, that was over twenty years ago—"

"No, no, it's quite alright," Hermann cuts in. "I was merely… _surprised._ "

He swallows; moves and opens the basket. "Tea?" he asks. "I brought chamomile—you always used to say it helped you sleep."

Newton shoots him a surprised look. "Uh—yeah," he says, "that'd…that'd be nice. Thanks."

Hermann pours him a cup; passes it, and doesn't pull back like he wants to when Newton's skin, icy-hot, brushes his; raises, instead, his gaze to the heavens. "See those three stars there?" he says, "the bright ones? If you connect them, they form Orion's Belt."

"The, uh, hunter, right?" Newton says; takes a sip of his tea.

"Yes, exactly," Hermann nods.

It takes a bit; Hermann can barely remember half of the constellations—it's been years since he's been anywhere with a sky clear enough to see them, and he hasn't truly devoted time to them since his childhood—, and Newton, by his side, barely speaks, at first.

Finally, though, Hermann feels the tension in him bleed away some; lulled into calm by the late hour and the tea, and finally, he lays down. "I'm not sleeping," he says, stubbornly, but within minutes, he's gone silent.

Hermann smiles softly and lays down as well.

They have sandwiches for breakfast, and Newton eats some pop-tarts; then, they walk the trail back to where Hermann parked the car.

The silence has settled between them, but it's not tense, really; there's a newfound sense of ease, somehow; tentative, but strong. When they've packed everything into the car, Hermann takes the steering wheel again. This time, though, he stretches out his hand over the divide between their seats; an offering of— _something._

Newt hesitates; takes Hermann's hand in his, settles their clasped hands on the divider between them; turns on the radio, then turns it off again after flipping through all the stations and getting only adds and static. The road stretches out before them.

"Can we stop for a minute, please?"

Hermann glances over. "Do you need something?" he asks.

"No, just…" Newton glances down; rubs his fingers. "I wanted to do something, but I don't want you to, like…crash the car, or anything."

"Alright," Hermann agrees; pulls over at the next shoulder, and stops the car; turns to look at Newton. "What is it."

Newton hesitates; worries his lip for a moment, uncertainty on his face. "Can…can you kiss me?" he asks. "I mean—if you want to. 'Cause I think you want to, and I want you to."

Hermann blinks at him. "Oh," he says, after a moment. "Well—yes, I'd rather like to."

Newton gives a weak smile. "Okay," he says, "great." There's a little something in his eyes; like hope and trepidation mixed together.

Hermann squeezes his hand. "It's quite alright, Newton," he reassures, and leans forward and kisses him.


	120. 120

**stay, stay (help me stay me)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "In the wake of the Precursors, Newt grows increasingly detached from himself. Hermann does tries his best to help."

* * *

The breath escapes; one, two, three, and Newt's eyes drift over, focusing on the empty space across the room; the hairline cracks fanning out, web-like, on the wall. His skin is—warm, maybe? Or so cold it feels like it. He's wearing short sleeves; the room is probably air-conditioned.

"Newton."

He blinks; slowly, and has to think about it; foot still on the floor, and his hands locked neatly in his lap. The name seems disconnected from him. Still, he looks up; meets the gaze; Hermann's.

He glances down; finds the warmth is from Hermann's hand on his shoulder; oh. "Yeah?" he asks, and clears his throat when it comes out sounding dry; _inhuman,_ the mere thought of it bringing bile up, and he thinks he can see thousands of eyes—

"Are you alright?" Hermann's worrying his lip; that unconscious habit he never did manage to break himself of, and there's… _worry,_ there, in his gaze. His hand is heavy, the weight like an anchor; maybe.

"…I…" he pauses; realises, after a moment, that the words aren't going to be forced from him without his consent. "Breathing," he says, finally; the truth, and then realises belatedly that that probably sounds awful; probably sounds like exactly what it is: that he doesn't know how the fuck he's meant to be, anymore.

Hermann's eyes widen. "Oh," he says, softly; as if he knows what has just passed Newt's mind, "you're not used to it, are you."

A statement more than a question; fair enough; it's true. He shrugs, neutral. "It's the Precursors' body, really."

Hermann's jaw tightens. He can't see it, in true, but he can feel the phantom of it; the displeasure—dissatisfaction; wonders why. Remembers, in sudden, that it's probably understandable.

He doesn't understand it.

"It's not," Hermann counters; can't have been more than a moment since Newt spoke but it feels a lifetime ago; longer, maybe, than that. His hand's still on Newt's arm.

"No," Newt says; after a moment, slow. "No, you're…you're right. It's not the _Precursors'_ body. It's… _the_ body." _At best,_ he doesn't add; because, really, most times? It _feels_ like the Precursors' body; like their invisible collar is still there, biting into his neck at the slightest hint of rebellion.

Still; Hermann is frowning. Why? Newt frowns, too; the thought of it dancing on the tip of his tongue, unspoken. "It's not," Hermann says, softly; and suddenly his eyes are so soft; so gentle, the shadows of his eyelashes falling on his face; long and dark, and he raises his hand to Newt's face; cups his cheek.

Newt swallows; breathes, one _two_ and he says, sharp, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Hermann draws back. "Apologies."

Still, though, it hangs between them; heavy, and then Newt's— _heavy,_ and his cheeks are wet; the question is, there, on the tip of _Hermann's_ tongue, now; and perhaps that is fair; perhaps that is a question that needs to be spoken.

"I'm… _crying,_ " he says; suddenly, as he realises it; and then he's leaning into and against Hermann, the points of contact burning hot; wrist brushing against Hermann's exposed one.

"What happened?" Hermann says; quietly. "Back there?"

 _Back when they had you,_ he means; _back when they were you._

"Nothing," Newt whispers. "Nothing, and…everything." And that is—that is the truth, in honest, because nothing happened and everything happened _to_ him. "I'm not me, anymore. I'm not…" he pulls his hand away; sits up, sudden, gestures widely. " _Here._ "

His cheeks are wet; still, and so are Hermann's; he can see them glisten with the light.

And then, a moment later, Hermann's hands return; reach out to find Newt's. "They are not here," he says; soft; gentle. "They are gone, Newton."

"But so am I."

"You're _not._ " The bite of it startles him; leaves him blinking slowly. "You're not," Hermann says; again, and he turns Newt'a hands over; rubs the inside of his wrist with his thumb. "This is you, Newton. Every cell, every hair follicle, every single inch of skin and bone is yours—it's written into your DNA. You know this; you're a biologist."

Newt startled; sudden; laughs, unintentional. Hermann's expression doesn't change. "They couldn't take that away from you," he says, fiercely, "they tried so _damn_ hard, but they couldn't take that away from you."

That's true; it's true; coded into Newt's very genes, incorruptible. Inimitable. There's something very comforting about that thought, that invisible individuality.

Hermann's hands, gentle, rise again; slowly, giving Newt the option to push them away if he wants; if he _needs to,_ still, and that is—that is _something._ Newt doesn't stop him; lets the touch alight on his cheeks again.

Hermann's fingers trace up his cheeks; over the bridge of his nose. "These," he says, "are your freckles, Newton Geiszler. They are yours; not the Precursors'. And these," he brushes his fingers over Newt's eyelids, "these are your eyes, not the Precursors'. They are yours, Newton, and they are lovely."

"Stop _it,_ " Newt says, but there's a smile ticking the corners of his lips; tone almost playful, if he even knows what that means anymore. "You're horrible, oh my _god._ "

Hermann smiles back; hands falling to cup his jaw, and he leans forward; the heat radiating from him; presses a kiss to the bridge of Newt's nose; chaste. "This is your nose," he says.

"…not the Precursors'," Newt finishes; with a slight giggle.

"Exactly," Hermann nods. "Every bit of you is _you,_ Newton; none of it is the Precursors'." His skin is rough; Newt wonders, suddenly, what he's been doing the last ten years to give him callouses where he never had them; remembers that Hermann has been doing his job and Newt's both for the last ten years.

Hermann's smile is warm; soft, and gentle. His touch is just as much; comforting, and grounding, both, and this is—

 _I don't deserve this,_ Newt thinks; suddenly, the thought cold, and then, with determination: _I want to. I'll work to deserve it._

He smiles back; weakly, but it's _there._


	121. 121

**ease**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "none of this is easy, but that doesn't mean they're not going to keep trying"

* * *

The wall between him and the outside is thick; enough that it muffles sound. Newt would know—he's been in here for long enough, after all; two years, nearly, even if only one of them he's been in control of himself at all.

Now, though, it's him—well, most days; there's still _episodes,_ as it were, but it's like 98% genuine Newt Geiszler.

Whatever _that_ means anymore.

Anyway, the wall muffles sound, hence why Newt is being cuffed and strapped up in a straight-jacket—he has a visitor; one who wants to _talk._

Well—at least it'll be a change from staring at the monochrome insides of his cell.

"Maybe today it'll be Jr," he murmurs; mostly to himself, considering that the guards basically pretend that he's not here.

One of them tugs the bindings a bit to tight and Newt hisses a breath through grit teeth. " _Not_ really into this—"

"Shut it, Geiszler," the guard growls, and Newt purses his lips but falls silent. The other guard doesn't speak, just deals with the rest of the clasps.

Newt sighs; as silently as he can.

At least he's going to get to talk to someone, right?

It's—

" _Hermann?_ "

The other turns to face him; blinks, once, twice. He doesn't look _surprised,_ exactly— _Newt_ definitely is; he wasn't even aware that Hermann was _alive._

Hermann's lips turn up into a tentative smile. "Newton?" he greets, "oh—it is you, isn't it? They told me you were clear, only I..." he trails off.

Newt swallows; something about the words—that frightened, fragile hope—speaks volumes. "Uh, yeah, it's me." He tries for a smile.

It doesn't succeed, obviously; Hermann's eyes fill with a spark of tension. "I'm glad of that," he says, but there's—_withdrawal _ in his tone; hesitation.

"What did they _do _ to you?"

He doesn't even realise he's said it, at first; not until Hermann's gaze snaps to him; _alarm,_ he thinks, maybe, or something else.

Hermann smiles this time; wan. "No one did anything to me, Newton."

"The— _them,_ " Newt hisses, past the block in his throat and doesn't manage to resist the instinct to flinch even at the suggestion of the name.

This time, he pauses; his lips pursed tight and eyes hollow, nearly; one hand hanging slack by his side and the other gripping, white-knuckled, the head of his cane. "It's better you don't know," he says; painfully gentle. "It's easier not to remember."

He means for _Newt—_and Newt knows it, and it terrifies him that even now, Hermann would sacrifice his own health and happiness for Newt's false sense of peace.

"Nothing about _any _of this is easier!"

"Having you back is easier than not."

The hollowness takes Newt aback; the painful desperation tangible even though it doesn't show in the other's voice, and oh; Hermann has always been so painfully good at controlling himself, hasn't he?

Newt swallows. One, two. In through the nose and out through the mouth. For maybe the first time, he truly hates the straight-jacket they have him in; hates how it means he can't freely move and touch and, fuck, _comfort_ Hermann.

The other's impressive expression cracks; the corner of his lip trembling, and then he squeezes his eyes shut; takes a seat in the one chair in the room. "They're, ah, treating you well, I hope?"

He might mean the PPDC; might mean the Precursors; Newt doesn't know, really. He shrugs. "I'm fine, now," he says. "Not even mostly-possessed anymore."

The attempt at humour falls painfully flat; then again, it isn't so much funny as grim. Newt shifts from foot to foot, the material of the straight-jacket changing his skin; itchy and coarse.

"I brought you something," Hermann says; quietly; finally breaking the awkward silence. "It's not much, but…"

He reaches inside his jacket; pulls out a single envelope; places it on his lap. "I..." he pauses; starts again, no longer meeting Newt's gaze. "I never was brave enough to apologise."

Newt laughs; suddenly, and involuntarily; the sound ripping from his lungs and clawing at his throat; brings tears to his eyes. " _Apologise?_ " he chokes out; finally.

Hermann's expression shutters. "Nevermind," he says tightly, "I'll see myself out—"

"No! I didn't mean—I was just... _surprised,_ " Newt says; words tumbling out, hasty. "You don't need to apologise for anything."

 _Whatever it is, it was probably my fault,_ he doesn't say. "I can't read it, anyway."

"Oh," Hermann says; and rises; strides towards Newt. "Here, let me—"

He's cut off as Newt flicks away; violent, drawing a hiss as he accidentally knocks him against him. " _What_ are you doing?!"

" _Trying_ to undo your restraints," Hermann snaps; takes a step forward. "Now let me—"

" _Last time I nearly killed you!_ "

The exclamation is pained; genuine; words burning as he pushes them out, desperate, _desperate_ to make Hermann understand. He can't—he _can't—_

"Oh, Newton," Hermann murmurs; and the envelope falls from his hand to the ground, forgotten. "You won't hurt me."

"You don't know that!" Newt bites out, and flinches again when Hermann moves forward; hand cupping his face. "You can't _know_ that," he says; again, more quietly.

Something passes over Hermann's face. _Understanding,_ maybe, because a moment later, he steps back; hand no longer pressed to Newt's skin. "Apologies," he murmurs, "I should have asked."

"Maybe you should go," Newt says; tiredly, chin dropping to his chest; breathes out shakily. "Not exactly good company right now, you know."

"Only if you want me to," Hermann returns. "A single word from you will silence me forever."

"Mr. Darcy. Nice," Newt laughs; more of a huff of air, really, eyes still closed. "Uh. Yeah, maybe, um. I think I'm kind of at the end of the rope for today, you know."

"Of course," Hermann says, and Newt cracks an eye open; watches him begin to turn away.

"Wait!"

Hermann stops. "Um, maybe..." Newt's voice cracks, and he starts again. "Maybe you can come back again?"

Hermann's gaze softens. "Oh, Newton. Of course," he says.

"Okay." Newt swallows. "Uh. Bye, for...for now."


	122. 122

**in which the precursors' plan is foiled, mostly by accident**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** what it says on the tin

* * *

"… _what,_ " Newt says, flatly.

Across from him, Hermann gives a slight grimace. "Well," he says, " _I'm_ not exactly sure what's happening here exactly either."

"I definitely didn't hire you," Newt says. "Dude, you're a _physicist,_ not a _private detective._ "

"Well," Hermann's gaze flicks away from him for a moment. "I've…had to turn to more _unorthodox_ means for funding, as of late—the PPDC hardly appreciates the importance of my work, even _now._ "

Irritation briefly flashes across his expression before it smooths out again.

Newt huffs a breath. " _Private detective?_ "

"I always did have a love for Conan-Doyle's Holmes," Hermann says. "Regardless, my point is, you _did,_ indeed, hire me, and I'm afraid that I've… _uncovered_ some rather disturbing issues."

 _Holmes,_ Newt thinks, with a silent hysteria. God. Here Hermann is, after three years, and acting like they barely know each other. Well—that's hardly unfair; Newt's not sure if they've _ever_ really known each other.

The point is—

The point _is—_

"This is batshit insane," Newt says, flatly. "I don't even _remember_ hiring you! And anyway, why would I need a private detective?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Hermann replies, "however, you contacted me ten days ago through email, and asked me to take a look into your person; while it is certainly…" he pauses. " _Unorthodox_ for clients to ask me to investigate themselves, the—well, frankly, the _monetary_ reward was…"

"Hefty?" Newt guesses.

Hermann nods. "Indeed."

Newt sighs. "Okay, then," he says, "hit me, dude."

Hermann pulls out a file-folder. "Here is what I have found," he says. "See—here," he pulls out a paper and slides it over to Newt. "At first, I found nothing—well, nothing out of the ordinary, that is. You are, in all appearances, nothing more than a pompous, reckless—"

"—hey—!"

" _if,_ admittedly, _brilliant,_ " and here, he stops; makes a vaguely pained expression before continuing, "employee of Shao Industries, specifically, its head of Research and Development Department."

"I'm sensing a _but_ here," Newt says.

Hermann's fingers drum the table between them; a nervous habit he must have developed since Newt left, probably Drift-bleed induced. "To put it bluntly, Newton, I'm afraid you've been dealing with the black market."

"I've been _what?_ " Newt chokes.

"I would have expected you'd be aware of the fact," Hermann says drily. "In addition to that, you have _also_ been gathering materials for what I believe to be an attempt to clone kaiju."

" _I've been what!?_ "

"I'm frankly not surprised," Hermann says, "I always _did_ think you were a bit of a—"

"Kaiju groupie?" Newt offers, and sags in his chair. "Yeah, dude, but like—not like _that._ " _At least, not anymore,_ he doesn't add. "If I've been…secretly trying to clone kaiju or whatever, though, I don't remember it _at all._ "

Hermann rises from his seat. "I thought not," he says, and though he's turned away from Newt, the relief slips into his tone; Newt doesn't need to see his face to know.

"I think I need a drink," Newt says; faintly, "preferably something with a shit-ton of caffeine."

When Hermann turns around, there's a faint hint of a smile on his face. "There's a place down the street," he says, "I'll pay."

* * *

A strong cup of coffee later, Newt finds himself and Hermann sitting in the lobby of the new and improved Shatterdome.

"This is crazy," he says, "you know this is crazy, right?"

"We saved the world on _crazy,_ " Hermann says, " _crazy_ is hardly something we're strangers to."

"Jesus," Newt says; blows out a sharp exhale. "Okay. Hah. Fuck. Okay, yeah, I'll do it. "Let's…let's get this over with."

Hermann nods. "Alright," he says, "I shall request the paperwork."

"Time to go see what the fuck is going on," Newt murmurs, "PPDC medbay, here I come."

* * *

"That's odd," the doctor says; with a frown, "you're…you're definitely _human,_ but those brain-scans…something's _really_ not human in your brain."

"Kaiju Drift?" Newt suggests, leaning over her shoulder to take a look, "I mean, that was almost five years ago, but—"

She shakes her head. "No—far more recent than that; residual effects from that Drift would have abated _much_ more than— _this._ This is _recent,_ Doctor Geiszler—two weeks, maybe three."

Hermann pales. "Are you saying he's Drifted that recently?" he asks.

"I'm afraid that's the only option," the doctor says, grimly. "Kaiju-human Drifting should be impossible, given that the last kaiju were destroyed shortly after the War, but…" she trails off.

Newt's eyes widen. "Hermann," he says, "you said something about _cloning kaiju_ —are you sure that I was only _trying?_ What if I _succeeded?_ "

"Oh dear," Hermann says, and sits heavily in one of the chairs. "Oh dear—that is very, _very_ possible, I'm afraid."

"Fuck," Newt says, succinctly.

* * *

" _A kaiju brain?_ " Newt practically screeches, when the PPDC go through his apartment. "I've been _living there_ —how the _hell_ would I not have noticed that!?"

Hermann opens his bag. "For that," he says, grimly, "I may have an explanation. Audio logs—recordings, that is, of the Drifts you engaged in; there's…" he hesitates. "Well." He presses play.

Finally…a _hosssssssst,_ voices hiss, and Newt flinches back at the harsh sounds. That's—that's _his_ voice, at the start, and then—

"Precursors," Hermann says. "They're not strong, not very, at least; not yet, but they've got enough hold on you to block out your memories of the Drifts."

"Oh, lovely!" Newt says, and hopes he doesn't sound hysterical. He probably does anyway. "Just what I wanted—alien parasites in my head! And genocidal conquerors to boot!"

Hermann gives a tight smile. "The good news," he says, "is that medical believes that simply isolating you—that is, not allowing another Drift to occur—will be enough to weaken, and then fully destroy, their hold in your mind."

"Well _that's_ good to know," Newt says, and closes his eyes with a sigh. "Fuck," he says, emphatically. "I…I must've found out, or something, and sent you an email before they mindwiped me. I…you could've ignored it. I mean I'm grateful you didn't, but…why didn't you?"

" _Mindwiped_ is hardly an accurate term," Hermann points out.

"Shut up, asshole, and answer the question," Newt snaps; without much bite.

"I…" Hermann hesitates. "As I said, my funding…and, well, it _was_ six figures…"

Newt's heart sinks. "Oh," he says, and musters up a feeble grin, "yeah, just—just business."

Hermann's lips tighten. "And…" he sighs. "I still considered you a dear friend, Newton—I _still_ do. I thought…perhaps it would allow me to see you again."

For a moment; silence. Then Newt's breaths fill the air; the side effect, he thinks, of shock; the acute attunement to one's own bodily functions. "Oh," Newt says, after a moment. "I…"

"You needn't feel like you need to respond," Hermann reassures. "I'm—I'm aware that that is a _loaded_ confession on my part."

"No, no, Hermann, I…" he swallows thickly. "I didn't…know you still felt that way. I thought I was the only one…"

"I'm glad of that," Hermann says, "truly; however, considering the lateness of the hour, perhaps we ought to resume this conversation at a later point."

"Yeah, maybe," Newt says. "It's like…late? Isn't it?"

"Past eleven," Hermann confirms. "What do you say?"

"…you're right," Newt says, "as much as I hate to admit it. Once we get this shit solved, you and I should have a long conversation."

"Good," says Hermann, "over dinner, perhaps?"

" _Dinner,_ " Newt says, "that sounds great."


	123. 123

**all that was left (in pandora's box)**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Post-Uprising, the precursors only leave Newt in control when he's alone. Or when what must be a hallucination of Hermann appears, because they know they killed him."

* * *

"Food," the guard says, shortly; the tray clattering onto the table harshly, its contents sloshing and barely stay below the room.

Newt closes his eyes.

They stare at the tray on the table, his eyes narrowing; bare his teeth in a snarl and direct a glare at the guard. "Human _filth._ "

The guard doesn't reply; Newt honestly doesn't blame him.

The food—tomato soup, two slices of bread, and one small bowl of rice, with a complementary plastic spoon—looks so fucking _good,_ honestly; and that could just be the hunger talking, not—well, they've had him on a three-day hunger strike; at this point Newt could eat a hippo.

Still; they pull his lips back in disgust; growl again: " _Filth._ "

 _God,_ Newt thinks; resignation, mostly; watches them poke at the rice. _What I wouldn't give for a moment of_ peace.

Well; here's to that. At least they're keeping him fed now, which is more than can be said for when they _first_ brought him in. Also see: less shouting, which is also very nice since that shit _really_ tears his throat up.

"We're not doing this for you," they remind him, "we're going to escape, Geiszler, and then you will all _pay._ At best, you have temporarily halted our progress."

 _Sure,_ Newt thinks, and rolls his eyes.

Really, once you get over the whole "possessed by genocidal aliens" part of it, it's pretty mundane. The Precursors are huge pissbabies, but like, honestly? It's pretty boring. Though it _would_ be nice if they'd give him the reigns a bit more.

They give a soft huff. "In your dreams, Geiszler."

They eat the rest of the food and stare at a spot on the ceiling; quietly concoct plans of—

 _Let's not,_ Newt says, _fantasise about breaking Hermann's neck, okay? Please?_

"Oh don't be _sad,_ " the Precursors sneer, "it's not like he's _alive._ We've killed him already—surely you cannot be _that_ upset about it."

Fuck _you bastards,_ Newt snarls, _I swear to god I will_ kill you—

They laugh; short and sharp. "Good luck with that."

Still, though, they let go; leave him blinking for a moment in the bright LED-strip lighting; the fabric of his clothing uncomfortable against his skin and a plastic spoon bent nearly in half in his hand. He takes a breath; drops it and winces as it clatters on the ground.

"It's okay," he says; quietly, though he's not even sure who he's trying to convince at this point because it really, _really_ isn't okay even in the _slightest._

The door clicks; suddenly, and Newt's head snaps at the sound; stiffening as they dig their claws back in; wrench control from him—

And let go.

The room fades back into view; Hermann.

He smiles crookedly. Good to know his imagination is still working, at least; though this is kind of new.

The other mirrors it; though more hesitantly; realistic, really, which is unexpected. "Newton," he says.

The Precursors, for once, are silent. Maybe they've realised the best way to hurt Newt is to let him torture himself with thoughts of how it could have been. He lets his smile drop. "Nice to see you," he says, because if he can't stop this, he might as well try and live it to its fullest.

"Yes, well," Hermann pauses; thumb rubbing the head of his cane, and Newt thinks, _Oh, I'd forgotten about that._ "I'd have been by sooner, but…" he trails off; licks his lips.

Newt nods; plays along. "Nah, man, I get it," he says. "You needed your time."

 _Don't we all,_ he adds, internally. It's kind of nice, though, to—well, not _see_ Hermann again, because that's never going to happen, but…to imagine him so fully.

"It's…good to see you," Hermann says; after a moment's silence. "Well—assuming it _is_ you."

Newt smiles; a bit too wide. "Genuine Newton Geiszler, baby," he says, "I'm _allll_ alone—it's not like they have any _reason_ to be in control right now."

Hermann's expression flickers. "Pardon?" he says, "I have—sorry, _what?_ "

"It's not great," Newt says, with a shrug, "but they let me have control if I'm alone."

"Alone," Hermann repeats. " _Alone?_ "

"Just me, myself, and I," Newt says, and gives a short laugh. "Trust me, dude, we all know you're not here. Just," he taps the side of his head, "a very accurate imaginary construct."

Hermann sputters. "That's— _ridiculous!_ " he says, "Newton—"

"H— _hah,_ " Newt chokes, "dude—"

Hermann crosses the room; cane tapping, rhythmic, across the ground, and Newt tenses. Then, a moment later; warmth. Hermann's hand on his arm, the warmth piercing through the thick fabric; and Newt's fingers tighten.

"… _shit,_ " he hisses.

Hermann pulls back. "Are you quite alright—?"

" _We killed you,_ " they roar; and Newt strains, grateful, so grateful for the restraints that snap tight and dig into his skin, stopping him from reaching Hermann as he scrambles away. "You are _dead_ —you were _dead!_ We _saw_ it!"

Hermann draws his shoulders back; lips pursed thin. "No," he says, "no, you didn't. Oh, you tried—but you didn't succeed. You didn't succeed—"

"We _will_ —"

"You will _not,_ " Hermann says; voice raising, for the first time, "you _will not_ succeed. Do you know why? You will not succeed because Newton is a good man, and you will _never_ win against him. He is _far_ stronger than you can imagine—"

" _Shut up!_ " they roar, "shut _up_ —"

"Newton," Hermann says; loud enough that Newt can hear; ignores the Precursors' incensed shouting, "Newton, I know you're in there. Stay strong, and—" he stops; closes his eyes for a moment. "I'll be back."

"Shut the _fuck_ up!"

The door closes behind Hermann, and they continue to scream; voice cracking and breaking but full of fury and _hate,_ and yet—

And yet, still, Newt feels… _peace,_ almost. Hermann isn't dead; and Hermann…Hermann thinks Newt is a good man; thinks Newt is _strong._

Maybe…maybe he's right.

 _Of course I am,_ a little voice that sounds suspiciously like Hermann's snaps; the thought makes Newt smile a little

 _Hope._


	124. 124

**creeping cold**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "there's a time-limit to this, but Newt's trying his hardest not to think about that; carpe diem and all"

* * *

 _September_

There's a chill in the air; barely there, on the edge of a breeze; the leaves of the trees still green, mostly, though there's red and golden brown creeping fingers up and out, and at night, it drops low enough to leave Newt shivering without any extra layers.

"Put on a sweater," Hermann says; and gives a pointed look at his own; over-large, tucked into his pants, the soft material of the sweater-vest shifting as he turns a page in his book. The patterning of it is chequered gold and black; Newt bought it for him a few years back.

Newt rolls his eyes. "Dude," he says, "it's not even that _cold._ "

It is, though; almost; and they both know it. So Hermann gives him a half-scowl that's more exasperation than anything and says, "Oh, _alright,_ come here," and pats the space on the couch next to him; pulls back the quilt over his lap a bit so that Newt can get under it.

"Love you, babe," Newt murmurs; smiling softly, and cosies up next to him; presses a chaste kiss to the other's cheek.

"Shush," Hermann says; but beneath the quilt, his hand sneaks into Newt's.

 _October_

The leaves crunch beneath his heavy black boots; the twilight settling in already, and around him the street lights flicker. Some houses are decorated for Hallowe'en already; some have gone lowkey while others have multiple pumpkins, lights, fake cobwebs, and ghosts.

"Cute!" Newt says, pointing to one house that has animal "skeletons" cavorting on the lawn.

Hermanan, by his side, gives a long-suffering sigh; hand clasped in his, and says, "Newton, spiders haven't got any bones—you're a _biologist,_ for God's sake; you know this."

" _Cute,_ " Newt repeats, and squeezes his hand in his. "By the way, I think the grocer's is _finally_ carrying eggnog—"

"It's barely halfway through October!"

"—so I'm gonna pick some up when I go," Newt continues. "Oh—and some canned pumpkin. I'm gonna make some pies. You wanna help?"

He turns his head; watches Hermann's lips purse; more show than anything; he already knows the answer. "Oh, alright," Hermann says; and pretends it's a hardship. As if he's not the one who insists they make two pies so he can satisfy his need to eat it multiple times a day. " _Dork,_ " Newt says, and grins.

"Oh, God, shut up," Hermann groans, and kicks up some leaves, but Newt can see the smile; hidden in the half-light, quiet; and he smiles too.

( _He wishes he'd never given in to the urge to take that third Drift; wishes he'd never given in to the urge to chase after the rumour of a kaiju brain being sold on the black market—a whole one, somehow; only three-quarters or so of a secondary brain of a Cat II, but still; enough._

 _It's almost laughably easy; it'd be funny, almost, if it weren't happening to him; would almost be funny to watch himself fall under their control, were he an outsider; to see how quickly it happens. All it takes is one unfortunate Drifts too many, and bam! He walks right into the trap they've set him._ )

 _November_

The cold is seeping into Hermann's bones; Newt can feel it; the achy wet-cold at the end of the day that digs its claws, vice-like, into Hermann's leg, especially after long days spent standing to teach.

He tries his best to combat it; buys a new hot water bottle and draws a bath at the end of the day because he gets home an hour before Hermann and it's the least he can do, really; and the way that Hermann smiles at him—tired, yes, but loving—is worth more to Newt than nearly anything.

"I miss you," he murmurs; once, sitting on the tile of the bathroom as Hermann sits in the tub; hand over his knees to hang over the rim, dipped into the water to grip Hermann's. He says it unthinkingly, almost; the sadness seeping into it; wistful and mournful, and he doesn't realise it until Hermann makes a confused sound.

"What are you on about, Newton?"

"I—just miss you during the day," he says; quickly, maybe too quickly, and his voice catches, just for a second; but Hermann doesn't notice; must be too relaxed, because he just blinks at Newt slowly; hums.

"I miss you too," he says; and smiles at Newt softly, and Newt thinks, suddenly: _Oh, god, this isn't fucking_ fair, but he smiles back anyway; painfully.

( _They give him until New Year's; the irony of it, he suspects, doesn't escape them; giving him a date that's supposed to be for new beginnings and forcing him to_ —

 _Leave._

 _They want him to leave_ —everything.

 _His job, his_ life.

Hermann.)

 _December_

There's mugs on the counter; Hermann's sitting on a stool, watching the snow falling outside. He's got bedhead; _adorable,_ Newt thinks, fondly, and watches the soft light halo the other; watches him pick up his mug—it's the one with the Hanukkiah on it; a gift ages ago, back when Newt was pretty sure Hermann hated him—and take a sip.

"Morning," Newt says, softly; wraps his arms around the other's shoulders.

The other starts; tenses, for a moment, before he relaxes. "Newton," he greets, "good morning, darling."

"Morning," Newt says; again, and smiles widely; tries not to think too much about the fact that this happiness has an expiration date. "Hey, dude, did you know I love you?"

Hermann sets his mug down; turns his head so Newt can nuzzle his neck. "Mmm," he says, and Newt can feel the smile in his voice. "You may have said it, once or twice—though perhaps it bears repeating."

Newt grins. "Love you, Herms," he says, "lots 'n' lots, dude."

The other laughs; softly; quiet, and they're there, silent; in the warmth of the kitchen, for a moment, the snow falling peacefully outside and Newt fucking wishes he could preserve this moment in amber forever and god, _god,_ he's so fucking in love and this is the perfect tragedy, isn't it?

( _It's almost_ funny _how afraid they are of Hermann. They know he's stronger than Newt, know that he's smart as a whip; know that if he gets even the faintest inkling that something's going on he'll pursue it like a bloodhound until he figures it out._

 _So; they give him two choices: either end things with Hermann on his own, or...or have them end it._

 _And they give him the fucking New Year as the due-by date. God; it's so fucked up._ )

 _January_

"Alright," he says, and glances at his watch, "I'll be in at ten, Doctor Shao."

The line clicks silent; and they pocket his phone; give him one moment to look back at the apartment before they slip his fingers into the handle of the suitcase with what little possessions they've allowed him to take.

 _Goodbye, Hermann,_ he thinks; wretchedly; and then: _please don't follow me._


	125. 125

**the joy found in small moments**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt makes cinnamon rolls"

* * *

The sunlight filters in softly through the blinds; seeping quietly between the cracks and lighting the room with a soft glow. It's early still; the sun's only just risen a while ago, but Newt's been up since before sunrise—he's always been a bit of a light sleeper.

He's not complaining, though; at least, not this morning; it's a Saturday, and he doesn't have any plans today—or at least, not any plans that require leaving the apartment, especially not at—he casts a glance at the clock—almost six-thirty in the morning.

No; the bed is warm, the day is young, and, most importantly, Hermann's head is pillowed on his chest; rising and falling as Newt breathes; hair soft and slightly red in the lighting.

 _God,_ Newt thinks and smiles softly, warmth filling his chest, _I love you so much._

The alarm goes off.

"Fuck!" Newt yelps, jerking up on reflex, and basically dumps Hermann off onto the bed.

"Nng," Hermann moans, cracking a single eye to glare balefully at Newt, "turn it _off._ "

"I'm _trying!_ " Newt retorts, fumbling with the alarm clock. "Bastard," he hisses, "I thought I made sure it was off—why the _fuck_ is it so _fiddly_ —" Finally, though, he manages to get it off; gives a triumphant crow. " _Hah!_ " He sets it back on the bedside table; turns to Hermann.

The other's pulled a pillow over his head. "I hate you," he says; muffled, from beneath it. "I was having _such_ a lovely sleep…" he trails off; sighs. "Ah, well; nothing to be done for it, I suppose."

"Aw, no, Herms," Newt says, softly, tugs the sheets up. "Here—it's really early; how about you just take a bit longer to lay down and I'll get breakfast and stuff all done up, 'kay? My treat—I forgot to turn my alarm off, so I should at least try and make up for it a bit."

There's silence; for a moment, and then Hermann pulls the pillow back and rolls to face Newt; says, grudgingly, "Oh, alright, I suppose."

Newt grins. "Good," he says, and pecks Hermann's cheek. "You just hang tight there, dude—I'm gonna treat you."

He spends a few minutes going through the closet looking for something suitably comfortable to wear; ends up deciding on one of Hermann's few non-button-up shirts and a pair of shorts; ignores Hermann's indignant huff behind him and makes his way to the kitchen.

He closes his eyes for a moment; toes curling at the coolness of the linoleum beneath his feet, and the still morning air raising the hair on his arms; breath moving in and out evenly; opens his eyes and opens the fridge.

There's some plain leftover noodles from last night; he grabs the container as well as a few eggs and the plastic bag with half an onion in it; sets them all on the counter and nearly closes the fridge before he thinks, _Oh, I_ know.

It's hardly any extra hassle, really, and he knows it'll make Hermann smile at him in that way he does when Newt does something particularly sweet; crow's feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. So he pulls out a stick of butter and the milk and then a few other ingredients, and a couple of bowls and then an apron; lets the stuff get to room temp as he fries the Polish noodles; puts a plate over the pan to keep them warm as he makes the cinnamon rolls.

The flour and butter meld into one as he presses them into each other; dry to flaky and then, finally, just right; shapes it into a ball and spreads flour out onto the counter; grabs the rolling pin.

Just as he's about to begin rolling it out, arms wrap around him; startling him. "Hey!"

"Cinnamon rolls?" Hermann murmurs, his smile pressed into the nape of Newt's neck.

"You're supposed to be lying down," Newt says with a scowl; but it's mostly for show. "Breakfast's done—I was just gonna stick these in the oven for later."

"Mm," Hermann murmurs, and then, "oh, God, are you wearing that _awful_ apron?"

Newt's scowl morphs into a grin. "Yep," he says, popping the p; dusts his hands off over the counter and turns to face Hermann, the other's arms dropping to his waist, and he relishes the grimace that passes over the other's expression. "Kiss the cook," he says, and smiles even more widely.

"Shut up," Hermann huffs, but obliges. "You're awful," he says, when he breaks away.

"Yep," Newt says, again, "now I gotta get the cinnamon rolls done, babe, so you gotta let go of me."

Hermann grumbles something unintelligible, but reluctantly pulls away; watches him roll the dough out and spread the butter and cinnamon and sugar on and then roll it up and cut it; pack it into the pan and stick it into the oven. "Okay," he says, "can you get the plates, Herms? My hands are kinda gunky."

"Of course," Hermann says, and pulls out plates and forks as Newt washes off his hands and tidies up the counter. "Do you want to serve yourself, or…?"

Newt shakes his head. "Nah, go ahead, thanks; I'll grab water."

Hermann gives an affirmative, and Newt grabs their mugs; his own with the cartoon dino on it, and Hermann's plain blue one; sets them down for a moment to flick on the light in the oven. The cinnamon rolls are rising; they should be done in five or six minutes.

When he gets out to the table, Hermann's waiting for him. Newt sets his mug down with a smile. "Thanks for waiting," he says; softly.

Hermann smiles back at him. "Of course," he replies. "And—thank you, Newton. This is…very nice."

"'Course," Newt says, "it's the least I could do."

"You could take off that _awful_ apron," Hermann says, pointedly, and Newt laughs.

"Oh, alright," he says, "only for you, babe."

"Thank you," Hermann says.

"The things I do for you," Newt sighs dramatically as he unties the apron and pulls it off. "Only for you, Herms, only for you."

"Oh my God, shut up," Hermann says, "I hate you so much," but his lips quirk at the corners.

Newt smiles; wider; sits down and lets the comforting atmosphere wash over him.


	126. 126

**geiszler, n, phd x7**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt gets his seventh PhD surrounded by the family he loves."

* * *

Newt nearly doesn't go; the truth of it is that he's flat-out exhausted from, like, _everything;_ it's a bit taxing to win a war by Drifting with aliens _twice_ and _then_ cram the work necessary for a(nother) doctorate into like, half the time he really _should_ have taken to do it.

So really, that's understandable, in his opinion.

And then he mentions it offhand to his dad and Illia over the phone and—

Well, they get _just_ a little excited about it.

"I already _have_ six, dad," Newt points out, "seriously, you've already been to like, four of my ceremonies, you've _gotta_ be kinda bored of 'em by now. I mean, _I_ am."

Jacob shakes his head, the motion slowed and pixelated by the _godawful_ connection, and says, "Absolutely not. We're going—right Illia?"

The other starts; blinking. "Uh—yeah," he says, "we're…" he gives Newt a panicked look, and Newt mouths _PhD_. "Going to come see your ceremony," he finishes.

Newt resists the urge to facepalm. "Thanks, Illia," he says, and sighs deeply. "Yeah, yeah, okay, fine. I mean, I haven't seen you guys in ages, so like…what's the harm?"

Jacob grins at him. "That's the spirit, kiddo," he says. "Oh—and make sure Hermann comes, alright? I want to see the man my son is—"

" _Dad,_ " Newt yelps, heat rushing to his cheeks, "okay I love you I'll email you _bye!_ "

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ it," Hermann says.

"You helped me not go insane while figuring out academic regalia all over again after having not used the knowledge in like, thirteen years," Newt points out, moving to pull out a cup for Hermann as the other switches off the stove, "you _literally_ were the first person I told about having passed my defence."

"Seven doctorates," Hermann says, and then shakes his head. " _Seven._ "

"Hepta-doctor," Newt says with a grin. "If you wanna be math-y about it."

Hermann sighs deeply. "Good lord. Why on Earth did I ever agree to marry you."

"'Cause you love me," Newt shoots back. "Now, _like I was saying,_ I want you to hood me, dude."

"That's…that's not…"

"Please?"

Hermann sighs. "Oh, alright. Fine. Yes. Of course I will, Newton."

Newt grins. "Great," he says, and reaches to take Hermann's hand in his. "Dude, I love you so much."

A quiet smile creeps across the other's face. "And I love you, Newton," he returns. "Now please stop trying to steal my biscuits."

" _Biscuits,_ " Newt says, "they're fucking _cookies,_ you bastard, and I deserve to have some."

* * *

"Photos," Jacob says, the instant Newt and Hermann get down off of the podium.

"You have photos from my six other ones!" Newt laughs, arm thrown around Hermann's waist, "dad, c'mon, do you _really_ need more photos?"

"Yep," Jacob says, straight-faced, and then breaks into a grin. "Let an old man live, Newt, this is an important moment! Look, Illia is wearing formal clothing! We gotta document this!"

"I could've worn a hoodie and jeans," Illia grumbles, and Jacob hits his shoulder. "Ow! Fine, fine. Listen to your dad, Newt, I didn't get all dressed up just to have you weasel your way out of photos with your family."

"Blackmail," Newt says, but he's grinning, and Hermann's arm is around him and _he's_ grinning too and Newt's family is all here, together, with him for—the first time in years and yeah, it's kind of stupid and he's probably a bit pretentious for getting seven doctorates but damn if he isn't tearing up.

"Are you alright?" Hermann murmurs, softly, as Jacob goes off to find someone to get a photo of them, dragging Illia with him.

Newt sniffs. "Y—yeah, I'm fine," he replies. "Just, uh, really happy, you know?"

"I do," Hermann nods. "I can _feel_ it."

Newt laughs. "Right, Drift bleed," he says, but it's fond. "Hey—"

"Alright, Newt, Hermann, stand closer," Jacob calls, "Illia, stand next to Hermann—"

"If they stand any closer, they're going to fuse together," Illia says drily, but moves to stand next to Hermann.

Jacob passes the phone to the poor newly-minted doctor he's grabbed and moves to stand by Newt. "Everyone say 'cheese'!" he says. "Illia, that means you too."

"I _am_ smiling," Illia shoots back, but obliges.

Finally, Jacob's satisfied with the photos. "Thank god," Newt groans, tugging the cap off. "I'm so fucking hungry I could eat a horse."

"That's a terrible idea," Hermann says. "I think there's an iHop in driving distance."

"…your driving distance or mine?"

"I'm driving, so mine," Hermann points out. "And don't complain, I'm paying—I'm not exactly nice and full either."

"Aww, sweet," Newt says, and grins wickedly.

Hermann's expression goes flat. "Oh dear," he says. "There's no backing out of this now, is there?"

"Nope, no take-backsies," Newt says, and links his fingers with Hermann's. "It's gonna be _fun._ "

* * *

"Oh man, I love pancakes," Newt sighs, and spears one of the peach slices, shoving the entire thing into his mouth.

Hermann wrinkles his nose; readjusts his grip on his knife and continues cutting his veggie omelette. "You're horrifying," he says, "and all of that sugar is going to make it hard for you to sleep tonight."

Newt shrugs. "Meh," he says. "Pass the maple syrup, please, dad."

"I see your tastes haven't changed, kid," Jacob says, and acquiesces; passes him a few packs of sugar as well, which Newt happily stirs into his coffee as Hermann looks on, horrified.

"Nope," Newt says, popping the p, "also, Herms, I'm going to order the pumpkin-spice hot-chocolate and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"Good lord," Hermann murmurs, and shoots Jacob and Illia a pleading look.

"Nothing you can do, Gottlieb," Illia says, "you're just going to have to get used to it."

Hermann sighs. "Lovely," he says, and takes a drag of his water, the ice clinking against the glass.

"You know me, babe," Newt says, patting his arm. "Seven doctorates and no common sense."

"Shut up," Hermann groans.


	127. 127

**geiszler, n, phd x7**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt gets his seventh PhD surrounded by the family he loves."

* * *

Newt nearly doesn't go; the truth of it is that he's flat-out exhausted from, like, _everything;_ it's a bit taxing to win a war by Drifting with aliens _twice_ and _then_ cram the work necessary for a(nother) doctorate into like, half the time he really _should_ have taken to do it.

So really, that's understandable, in his opinion.

And then he mentions it offhand to his dad and Illia over the phone and—

Well, they get _just_ a little excited about it.

"I already _have_ six, dad," Newt points out, "seriously, you've already been to like, four of my ceremonies, you've _gotta_ be kinda bored of 'em by now. I mean, _I_ am."

Jacob shakes his head, the motion slowed and pixelated by the _godawful_ connection, and says, "Absolutely not. We're going—right Illia?"

The other starts; blinking. "Uh—yeah," he says, "we're…" he gives Newt a panicked look, and Newt mouths _PhD_. "Going to come see your ceremony," he finishes.

Newt resists the urge to facepalm. "Thanks, Illia," he says, and sighs deeply. "Yeah, yeah, okay, fine. I mean, I haven't seen you guys in ages, so like…what's the harm?"

Jacob grins at him. "That's the spirit, kiddo," he says. "Oh—and make sure Hermann comes, alright? I want to see the man my son is—"

" _Dad,_ " Newt yelps, heat rushing to his cheeks, "okay I love you I'll email you _bye!_ "

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ it," Hermann says.

"You helped me not go insane while figuring out academic regalia all over again after having not used the knowledge in like, thirteen years," Newt points out, moving to pull out a cup for Hermann as the other switches off the stove, "you _literally_ were the first person I told about having passed my defence."

"Seven doctorates," Hermann says, and then shakes his head. " _Seven._ "

"Hepta-doctor," Newt says with a grin. "If you wanna be math-y about it."

Hermann sighs deeply. "Good lord. Why on Earth did I ever agree to marry you."

"'Cause you love me," Newt shoots back. "Now, _like I was saying,_ I want you to hood me, dude."

"That's…that's not…"

"Please?"

Hermann sighs. "Oh, alright. Fine. Yes. Of course I will, Newton."

Newt grins. "Great," he says, and reaches to take Hermann's hand in his. "Dude, I love you so much."

A quiet smile creeps across the other's face. "And I love you, Newton," he returns. "Now please stop trying to steal my biscuits."

" _Biscuits,_ " Newt says, "they're fucking _cookies,_ you bastard, and I deserve to have some."

* * *

"Photos," Jacob says, the instant Newt and Hermann get down off of the podium.

"You have photos from my six other ones!" Newt laughs, arm thrown around Hermann's waist, "dad, c'mon, do you _really_ need more photos?"

"Yep," Jacob says, straight-faced, and then breaks into a grin. "Let an old man live, Newt, this is an important moment! Look, Illia is wearing formal clothing! We gotta document this!"

"I could've worn a hoodie and jeans," Illia grumbles, and Jacob hits his shoulder. "Ow! Fine, fine. Listen to your dad, Newt, I didn't get all dressed up just to have you weasel your way out of photos with your family."

"Blackmail," Newt says, but he's grinning, and Hermann's arm is around him and _he's_ grinning too and Newt's family is all here, together, with him for—the first time in years and yeah, it's kind of stupid and he's probably a bit pretentious for getting seven doctorates but damn if he isn't tearing up.

"Are you alright?" Hermann murmurs, softly, as Jacob goes off to find someone to get a photo of them, dragging Illia with him.

Newt sniffs. "Y—yeah, I'm fine," he replies. "Just, uh, really happy, you know?"

"I do," Hermann nods. "I can _feel_ it."

Newt laughs. "Right, Drift bleed," he says, but it's fond. "Hey—"

"Alright, Newt, Hermann, stand closer," Jacob calls, "Illia, stand next to Hermann—"

"If they stand any closer, they're going to fuse together," Illia says drily, but moves to stand next to Hermann.

Jacob passes the phone to the poor newly-minted doctor he's grabbed and moves to stand by Newt. "Everyone say 'cheese'!" he says. "Illia, that means you too."

"I _am_ smiling," Illia shoots back, but obliges.

Finally, Jacob's satisfied with the photos. "Thank god," Newt groans, tugging the cap off. "I'm so fucking hungry I could eat a horse."

"That's a terrible idea," Hermann says. "I think there's an iHop in driving distance."

"…your driving distance or mine?"

"I'm driving, so mine," Hermann points out. "And don't complain, I'm paying—I'm not exactly nice and full either."

"Aww, sweet," Newt says, and grins wickedly.

Hermann's expression goes flat. "Oh dear," he says. "There's no backing out of this now, is there?"

"Nope, no take-backsies," Newt says, and links his fingers with Hermann's. "It's gonna be _fun._ "

* * *

"Oh man, I love pancakes," Newt sighs, and spears one of the peach slices, shoving the entire thing into his mouth.

Hermann wrinkles his nose; readjusts his grip on his knife and continues cutting his veggie omelette. "You're horrifying," he says, "and all of that sugar is going to make it hard for you to sleep tonight."

Newt shrugs. "Meh," he says. "Pass the maple syrup, please, dad."

"I see your tastes haven't changed, kid," Jacob says, and acquiesces; passes him a few packs of sugar as well, which Newt happily stirs into his coffee as Hermann looks on, horrified.

"Nope," Newt says, popping the p, "also, Herms, I'm going to order the pumpkin-spice hot-chocolate and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

"Good lord," Hermann murmurs, and shoots Jacob and Illia a pleading look.

"Nothing you can do, Gottlieb," Illia says, "you're just going to have to get used to it."

Hermann sighs. "Lovely," he says, and takes a drag of his water, the ice clinking against the glass.

"You know me, babe," Newt says, patting his arm. "Seven doctorates and no common sense."

"Shut up," Hermann groans.


	128. 128

**out of my head**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "somehow, Hermann takes Newt's ten lost years the hardest"

* * *

Somehow, Hermann ends up being the one to take Newt's lost ten years the hardest.

Perhaps it's relative; Newt would hardly know; but he thinks, once you get past the panic attacks and PTSD, he's doing really well, given everything; all things considered, he'd say he's doing stellar, even—he's going to his therapy sessions, he's making the effort to reintegrate into society, so on and so forth.

Last week he even made it to the aquarium—alone! Which, really, he shouldn't be _so_ proud of, but, honestly? It feels monumental. Ten years of losing more and more control until he was trapped and powerless—well, it makes him appreciate the little things more.

It shows in the little ways; the purse of Hermann's lips and the way his eyes shutter the instant they get anywhere near a topic he thinks will upset Newt; the way that before Newt leaves to go to the grocery store he tells him to look both ways before crossing the street "just in case".

Maybe it's this; the fact that he didn't _know,_ not until _after._ Newt knew late, sure, but he's been _dealing_ with it, even without knowing it, for the past decade. He's had time to process; Hermann's still new to this.

Or—maybe; it's that Hermann's afraid. Not of him—he knows that, now; no. Of himself. He's used to being right, and he was so, so wrong, and maybe, maybe he doesn't know how to deal with that; especially not when it's _him;_ not when it's Newt.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Newt starts; blinks. Turns to look at Hermann. Watches the soft rise and fall of his chest; the way his face is half cast into shadow with the light of the bedside lamp. The curve of his shoulder; the stupid long pyjamas he wears with lace on the collar and cuffs. The crease between his brows from long hours of stress. The premature greying at his temples.

He shrugs; noncommittally. "Not much. Just you, but that's usual." It's true; Hermann's always been on his mind, even before.

Hermann laughs; soft; quiet, in the way he never is except when they're alone together, but hesitant; still. "Hilarious."

"No, really," Newt says; smiles. He's been doing that more, now; smiling. It's something about Hermann, he thinks, that does it; brings it out in him.

"Do you think about me a lot, Doctor Geiszler?" Hermann teases, and the sparkle in his eyes is back; duller than he remembers it, but there nevertheless. "Do I prey on your—" he stops; freezes, nearly, eyes flickering hummingbird-quick. "Ah, nevermind, I—"

Newt reaches out; makes to put a comforting hand on Hermann's shoulder; stops when the other moves away. "Hey, no, don't worry, it's okay."

"No, I—I apologise," Hermann says; grimaces, gaze no longer meeting his, and he's gone— _cold,_ almost. "I shouldn't—nevermind."

"Hermann—"

" _Nevermind,_ " Hermann snaps.

Newt falls silent; the only sound the buzz between his ears and Hermann's laboured breathing, and he wants to—to reach out, but that does _not_ seem like a good idea right now, at _all._ And that—it hurts. It hurts a lot, to see Hermann like this and know that he can't do anything to make it better right now.

All he can do is wait.

So he does.

Hermann's breaths slow; finally, to a steady pace, and when he turns over, his face is red; like he's been scrubbing at it; like he's been crying, quietly. "Hey, hey," Newt says; softly, and when Hermann doesn't say anything, sighs. "It's okay, Hermann. I'm not…I'm not fragile, or anything, you don't have to treat me like I'm going to break."

"I." Hermann stops. "I…sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It was a _joke,_ " Newt says, "Herms, it's okay. I know you didn't mean it like that, okay? And it was just—just a joke. I know that. I'm not…" _where I was before,_ he doesn't add, _about to fall into a nervous wreck if someone so much as said my name._

Hermann swallows. "Alright," he says, "I'm…I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologise," Newt comforts; reaches out tentatively, and this time, Hermann doesn't flinch away from his touch; lets his hand settle on his arm, and sighs; soft, the barest exhale. "I know you don't want me to be upset."

"No," Hermann says; and his lips purse. "No, I—that's the very _last_ thing I want. And it…" he hesitates.

Newt gives an encouraging squeeze.

"I can't bear the thought of you hurting," Hermann says; thickly, and he blinks quickly. "I—for so long, you were…you were hurting, and I didn't _know,_ and now…"

"You're afraid it's going to happen again," Newt finishes, and oh; oh, he understands it, and it _hurts._

"Yes. Yes."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to let you in on a secret: if you hurt me, I'll tell you."

"I—"

"I _promise,_ " Newt says. "And I know that's hard for you to believe, but Hermann, you have to trust me, okay? I promise I'll tell you. We'll work on it together."

Hermann's eyes shut; and for a moment, it seems like he's not going to say anything. When he does speak, there's a rawness that wasn't there before. "Alright. I…I trust you, Newton."

Newt breathes. Smiles. "Thank you," he says.

"Can you…" Hermann hesitates. "Can you…say it again?"

"What—oh. Oh." Newt stops. "Hermann, I trust you. I promise, dude. C'mere."

Hermann shifts towards him; tense, still, but complying, and when Newt puts his arm over him and squeezes, he lets out a startled breath; tenses further, and then, slowly, relaxes; curls into him, head nestled beneath Newt's chin; breath tickling his neck, the scent of his cucumber shampoo in Newt's nose.

"It's okay, Hermann," Newt murmurs, "I trust you."

Hermann doesn't reply, but the tension bleeds, further, out of him; shoulders sloping instead of sharp-cut tension, and his breath is even; steady, and Newt says, again, "I trust you," and it's true; and they both know it.


	129. 129

**no more pretending**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "He can feel Newton's smile even if he can't see it, can hear the unspoken _oh, how scandalous, Dr. Gottlieb_ that would usually follow; but not tonight, not tonight; because, perhaps, tonight is a night where they don't fall back into old routines; don't leave the unspoken something between them unspoken any longer.

God, Hermann hopes it is. He's tired and happy and he doesn't particularly _want_ to pretend that the other is nothing more than a labmate to him."

* * *

After the war, it seems an inevitability; they've been building up to this, really, for ages, neither willing to acknowledge the growing _thing_ that's between them; always pretending that whatever they had died the day they met, because neither of them know how to deal with the fact that it _didn't;_ that, if anything, they care for each other now more deeply than they did.

And now they've Drifted; literally linked their brains together and Newt had said to him _you would do that for me—?_ and then caught himself and said, instead, _or—or with me?_ and Hermann had brushed it off with a witty retort but the truth is—

 _Yes._ Yes, yes, he would. Yes, he did. He would do it again.

And after the Drift, after the Breach closed, and everyone is celebrating, Newton pulls him into a hug; elation and relief and something else, too; gentleness in his touch.

"I could sleep for a year," Hermann mutters, for once allowing hyperbole, and he doesn't expect any response, really; but he's leaning against Newton in a position that is frighteningly intimate given everything, so he should have expected it.

Newton gives a huff. "Me too, Herms," he says, "wanna crash in my room?"

"What's wrong with _my_ room?" Hermann retorts, but it's not a _no_ and they both know it.

"It looks like no one lives in it," Newton says bluntly. "It's creepy. I can't sleep in there." And his arm tightens a bit and Hermann doesn't protest the way it pulls the two of them closer together because he _wants_ this so startlingly much; the longing prickling beneath his skin. "Plus, I have warm blankets."

"Oh, alright," Hermann says, and the grudging tone that it would usually contain is absent and he doesn't think that it's particularly a bad thing. "Lead me to your quarters, then, Newton."

He can feel Newton's smile even if he can't see it, can hear the unspoken _oh, how scandalous, Dr. Gottlieb_ that would usually follow; but not tonight, not tonight; because, perhaps, tonight is a night where they don't fall back into old routines; don't leave the unspoken something between them unspoken any longer.

God, Hermann hopes it is. He's tired and happy and he doesn't particularly _want_ to pretend that the other is nothing more than a labmate to him.

"Herms?"

Hermann blinks. They're in front of the door; or, rather, the doorway. Newton's unlocked the door, but he's still holding onto Hermann; still letting him lean on him. Oh; they're here already.

"I—er—yes," he stammers, "sorry, I was lost in my thoughts."

Newton smiles at him; soft and understanding. "'s alright. C'mon, let's get you to bed, dude."

"Probably a good idea, yes," Hermann agrees; readjusts his grip on his cane and shifts a bit so that he can more comfortably lean against the other as they go over the threshold.

Once they're inside, Newton leads him to the bed, and Hermann sets his cane against the back of the chair Newton puts by the bed; sits on the edge and waits as the other digs through his drawers. "Well," Newton says, after a moment, and presents two graphic-tees, "you get to choose between Darth Vader and Pride."

"…either one is fine," Hermann says, after a moment, and Newton beams at him.

"Great!" he says, and tosses the shirt with rainbow lions on it at him. "I have a pair of sweatpants if you want."

Hermann considers refusing; considers handing the shirt back and stammering some excuse; any other day, he'd flee, mortified, back to his own quarters, but tonight…no. Not tonight. He shrugs off his blazer; pulls off his sweater, and unbuttons his shirt; folds each item and sets them on the chair before pulling on the shirt; trades his own slacks out for the pair Newton offers him a few moments later.

"Alright, scoot," Newton says, "I gotta get under the covers too, man, you can't leave me out in the cold. It's my bed."

"I can if I want to," Hermann says, but obliges; lets Newton pull the covers back and herd him beneath them, joining a moment later.

"Sh—keep your fingers off of me!" Newton yelps, "you're _freezing!_ "

"And _you're_ irrationally _hot,_ " Hermann retorts sleepily, peering through half-cracked eyes.

"I—shut up and go to sleep," Newton splutters, but he shifts closer; takes Hermann's frigid hands is his own warm ones.

* * *

Hermann wakes slowly. He's warm, and though the aches are still there, they're dulled. Newton's arms are around him, comforting, and he lets the memories of the previous night—day?—play through his mind.

Finally, he opens his eyes.

"Morning, sunshine," Newton says softly, "how are you feeling?"

"…slightly disturbed by the thought that you've spent who knows how long watching me sleep," he replies.

Newton scoffs. "It's not _creepy,_ " he protests. "You just looked so… _comfortable,_ I guess. At peace. I didn't want to end that."

 _Oh._ Hermann blinks. "That's…very thoughtful of you," he says, finally.

The biologist shrugs. "I figure I spend enough time ruining things for you," he says, and it's meant to be a joke, but there's too much truth in it for that.

"Oh, don't be like that," Hermann says, "we both know it's mutual."

Newton laughs. "Weird way to comfort me," he says, but the heaviness has lifted a bit from his eyes.

"I've been told I'm a bit weird," Hermann says.

"Mmyeah. Weirdly attractive," Newton says, and smiles as Hermann's cheeks heat up. "If you get to call me _hot_ I get to call you pretty," he says.

" _Pretty,_ " Hermann huffs; mock-offended, but there's a quiet happiness to this.

" _Very_ pretty," Newton amends.

"Shut up before I kiss you," Hermann threatens, and the other's grin widens.

"Bold of you to assume you're not falling into my insidious trap," he teases.

"Bold of you to assume I don't _want_ to," Hermann counters.

"Oh shut up and kiss me," Newton says.

Hermann does; softly, and pulls away for a moment; smiles at Newton's own smile, and then smiles wider when Newton kisses him.

* * *

The next few weeks are spent dealing with press and trying to clear out the lab; despite not getting nearly the amount of press attention as others in the Shatterdome, there's always a few reporters and photographers trailing after them when they have to leave the Shatterdome, and that's not even mentioning the interviews the PPDC higher-ups insist they must attend.

Hermann feels bad for Ranger Beckett and Mako; they're the centre of the media's attention.

Of course, inevitably, his father calls.

It's while he's going through his papers in the lab; trying to get rid of anything out of date and transfer the remaining information to digital when the notification pops up on his screen of an incoming video-call.

 _Accept?_ the screen prompts, and Hermann takes a look at the caller-ID; sighs and accepts it.

"Father," he greets stiffly, "how… _nice_ to see you."

"Hermann," Lars says; face pinched like he's eating a lemon.

"Come to sulk and blame me for the media finally realising what a farce the Wall was?" Hermann asks. If possible, the other's face sours even more. "I was _right,_ you know," he can't resist adding, "Newton and I were both right."

" _Newton,_ " Lars spits, like the very name offends him. "I cannot _believe_ you still associate with that—that _joke_ of a man."

" _Father,_ " Hermann warns, "that _joke of a man_ is my _friend,_ so _watch your tongue._ "

" _Friend,_ " he scoffs, "do not be _ridiculous,_ Hermann; I've read the interviews. That man's not fit to be a part of your—your midlife crisis."

"He's not a mid-life crisis, Father," he says tiredly.

"Well, what is he?"

Hermann doesn't know how to answer him. There isn't any good word to define what they are to each other. He's the love of his life.

Instead he says, "I don't answer to you. If you want to be rude and ungrateful to the man who's responsible for your continued existence and the closure of the Breach, then I am going to hang up on you. Goodbye, Lars. Don't call me again."

He ends the call. The screen goes dark, and he lets out a heavy sigh, shoulders slumping.

There's the sound of footsteps; and then a cup set down in front of him.

"I'm sorry, man," Newton says, softly, squeezing his shoulder. "Your father's an asshole."

"It's alright," Hermann sighs, "I'm not even—it's just…tiring, I suppose."

"Well, I made you tea," Newton says, gesturing to the cup, "hopefully that helps a bit."

"Thank you, Newton," Hermann says, and smiles tentatively; picks up the cup. "I…" he trails off. _I love you,_ he means, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat.

Newton squeezes his shoulder again. "It's okay," he says, "take your time. We've got the rest of our lives."

"We have, haven't we," Hermann murmurs, and the thought fills him with warmth.


	130. 130

**someone special**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt doesn't have a date for the annual Shatterdome Christmas party. Hermann doesn't either. You get where this is going."

* * *

"Hermann," Newton says.

Hermann hums. "Hermann," Newton says, more insistently, and accompanies it with the wet slap of kaiju intestines, and Hermann winces at the sound; contemplates the idea of ignoring the other and letting him ramble at the walls and his recorder or answer.

Maybe he'll let whatever inane topic it is die out if Hermann ignores him.

" _Hermann._ "

Or not. "Yes, Newton?" Hermann sighs.

"Come to the Christmas party with me," Newton says, "I need a date."

"You need a— _what?_ " Hermann splutters.

"Date," Newton says, patiently, as if explaining it to a small child. "Y'know, like when you need a plus-one to something?"

"Yes, I understand the _concept,_ " Hermann snaps, eying the other through the half-transparent model projections. "I merely—well—" he pauses. _Why_ me? He doesn't ask. "Isn't there _literally_ anyone else who you could bother with this issue, Newton?"

The other tips his head to scratch his chin with his shoulder; does something that makes the squelching increase. "Nah, man, everyone else either has dates to the party or, well—"

He pulls something out. "Hah! Got it," he exclaims, grinning with wild abandon in a way that _really_ should be more disturbing than it is, and places… _something_ on one of the trays on the counter. "Anyway. I was saying. Uh, either they have dates, or, well, let's be real, they'd throw their drink in my face in five minutes."

"So would _I,_ " Hermann points out.

"That's different," Newton scowls. "So—yes or no. And keep in mind that you owe me for Chanukah-'22- Electric-Boogalo with your family."

Hermann groans. "Dear lord. Don't remind me. Father nearly had an aneurysm, and we were only there for one day." They were called away the second day due to urgent work-related matters, for which Hermann is sure Lars is quite relieved about, even now. "Alright," he says, "but if you try and get me to engage in any of your— _antics…_ " he trails off.

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Newton says; oddly serious. "I'll be the perfect gentleman, pinky-promise."

Hermann rolls his eyes.

The program in front of him gives a shrill beep. Model complete, the system informs him. "Right," he says, "er—"

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead," Newton waves him off, "thanks, anyway, dude."

"Of course," Hermann mutters, eyes flicking over the text. "That's…" he trails off.

 _What friends are for,_ he nearly adds, and then thinks better of it. "Don't mention it," he says; instead; stiff and a bit awkwardly. Newton doesn't even reply; he's probably not even paying attention.

Not that he _wants_ Newton to pay attention to him—that never ends well; Newton paying attention to him means he wants Hermann to pay attention to _him,_ and that only leads to trouble.

"This is underwhelming," Newton says, barely five minutes in; their colleagues' chatter around them faded to a white noise, and he's scowling into his cherry-red plastic cup full of cider and taking quick sips, lips pressing into a thin pink like and Hermann thinks perhaps—

Well; that's hardly relevant.

"Here," Newton says, and thrusts his beverage towards Hermann, "hold this. I gotta go get something."

Hermann splutters a " _What_ —" but Newton's already gone; pushing people out of his way. Hermann sighs. Lovely; not even ten minutes in and Newton's already gone off to do—Hermann has no idea. He thinks he heard Tendo's name before the other went out of earshot, and that instils a deep sense of dread.

He looks into the cup; wrinkles his nose at the dull reflection of himself. He looks—haggard; to be fair, he _feels_ haggard; they all do, probably.

Newton comes back in what feels like a lifetime, but which his watch informs him is only twenty minutes. He's holding onto Tendo and looks a little ready to fall over. "Did you find… _it?_ " Hermann asks.

"Hmm? Oh," Newton blinks at him, "right. Uh. Yeah."

"Yep," Tendo says, "we found it. _And_ we found you."

"Er, yes," Hermann says slowly, "ah, Newton, here's your, er," he stops; feels silly, suddenly, but offers him the cup anyway.

Newton stares at it for a moment, and then: "Oh. You…kept it."

Hermann shrugs and bites back the urge to rub the back of his neck. "You asked me to keep it," he says, instead; watches Newton's eyes widen. "Anyone would have done the same," he says stiffly, "don't take it to heart."

"Oh," Newton says. "Yeah. Right." He pulls away from Tendo. "Anyway. Thanks for, uh, helping Tendo. You can leave me in Hermann's… _capable_ hands."

"Right, brother," Tendo says; pats his shoulder and gives a wink. "Y'all have fun."

Newton gives a flat smile. "Well. Anything change since I left?"

"Not really."

"Okay," Newton says. "Well."

 _This is fine,_ Hermann thinks, and then tries not to laugh when the voice in his head sounds like Newton's. "How long…" he trails off.

"Oh thank God," Newton says, "I was thinking the same thing _exactly._ Wanna bail?"

"We've only been here forty minutes—"

"Do you wanna _bail_ or not?"

"I—" Hermann stops. "Well. Yes. I'd really like to," he admits. "I'm tired and bored and this feels like a waste of time."

Newton grins at him; oddly; and somehow, Hermann understands it. "Glad we got that cleared up. Your place, mine, or the lab?"

"Whatever you'd prefer," Hermann replies, "though preferably far away from this— _racket_ that they're passing off as _music._ "

"Gotcha," Newton says; and his grin is wider; and he's leaning on Hermann, now. "Lab, then; our rooms are close enough that we'll be able to hear this shit."

Hermann hums. "Alright," he says.

They're back in the lab, and Hermann is suddenly very glad that they agreed ages ago to put in a sofa; it's quite good to sit back on it. Newton's sitting with him, too; and that's nice; he can admit it, now, this late into the night.

"What were you going to get?" Hermann asks. "If, ah, you don't mind my asking."

"Mm," Newton hums; and the sound vibrates against him. "Present. I, uh, realised I should probably get you something else."

Oh. "That's…you needn't."

"I wanted to," Newton counters. "I want to."

"I…" Hermann stops; words failing, because this—this is too close to _intimacy,_ here; and he should pull away, now, before it burns him again like it did the first time but he finds, oddly enough, that he doesn't _want_ to.

Newton's head rises; and his gaze locks with Hermann's; shifting as the shadows shift as he moves. "Can I tell you something really stupid right now?"

"Have you ever said anything that's _not?_ "

"I'm serious," Newton says; and it _feels_ like it, now; more serious even than that triple event and the end of the war and—well, _everything,_ barely eleven months ago; the weight of it tugging at the echoes of the ghost of the Drift bond between them.

Hermann nods; suddenly unable to formulate words.

"I was going to…" Newton hesitates. "I was going to , uh—figure out the postage and…send you my heart, so to speak—Christmas gift, as it were—, but then Tendo talked me out of it. Honestly, I think he's probably right—why should I send you something so broken? But…"

Hermann draws in a breath. "Newton…"

"Let me finish. _Please._ I…I think it's stupid, yeah, but…Hermann, we survived a fucking war. The least I can do is be honest for once in my life."

 _Oh;_ and this is it; the intimacy crushing; painful, nearly, but welcomedly so; and Hermann embraces it; embraces _him,_ suddenly, and nearly violently, so much that it nearly knocks them over, but instead, somehow, they stumble to a compromise, Newton's arms under his and gripping his shoulders and Hermann's arm over his and; oh; some pain is worth, it, perhaps.

"Thank you," Hermann whispers, softly, "I'm… _honoured._ "

 _I want to give you mine, too,_ he doesn't say, because he's not sure he _can,_ yet, but he feels the hot exhale of Newton's breath against his neck and knows he's smiling and thinks, maybe, perhaps, Newton knows; perhaps he _understands._

"I do," Newton murmurs, "I do."


	131. 131

**in which dr. gottlieb has horrible timing**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "some days they work efficiently. some days stretch into the early morning and leave them like this: half out of it and with unspoken things on Hermann's tongue."

* * *

It's morning.

Hermann doesn't know this because of any natural light coming through the window; no; he knows it because the clock above his chalkboards ticks off the seconds and minutes and hours and—

And—

Well. It's been one of those days. He's been watching it.

Newton, too; perhaps. He's been watching it since seven in the evening. It's two am now. His fingers are cold and numb and his leg is aching and he refuses to get off of the ladder because he—

He stopped really doing anything around eleven. Newton hasn't been doing anything since at least nine. Both of them are pretending they don't know this.

Both of them are pretending they feel anything but ineffectual.

Romeo Blue went down in the morning. Hardfall, too; but only barely, and talking with it one of their strongest Jaeger teams after six hours of combat.

The Jaeger had limped away from the carcass of the dead beast as they and thousands of others watched and then, barely a kilometre away from the miracle mile, sputtered to a halt; the vital signs of first one pilot and then the other going offline, and then—

It fell.

Hermann tries not to think too hard about it; about how it was his inability to accurately predict the kaiju's size that meant the Marshal sent out only one and not two teams. He tries—

He fails.

He's looking at the clock again.

It's December. Outside, it might be snowing. It's Alaska; it's unlikely to not be snowing. He wouldn't know, though; he hasn't been outside the Shatterdome in days and his quarters—the only other place he spends time in besides the lab and the mess hall, both of which are underground—has no windows.

Somehow it makes things better—not knowing. Somehow it makes things worse.

Newton is no longer even pretending to work. Hermann isn't; either.

"You ever think about after?" the other asks out of the blue, and Hermann blinks. "The war," the other clarifies.

 _Yes,_ Hermann doesn't say; _yes, all of the time. I think of the darkness and the unknown abyss. I don't think we can win this._ Instead he says: "Not particularly. I think about the _work_ I need to do, _unlike some people._ "

That makes the other's expression crack into a reluctant smile; chapped lips turning up at the corners. "I do," he says, "I think I'd like to go back to Boston."

"That sounds rather… _tame_ for you," Hermann comments; brow raised; sets down his chalk and shifts to sit on the rung rather than stand on it. "You never shut up about being a—a _rockstar._ " And he adds diersion to that, but really, it's not heartfelt; the proclamation is something so essentially _Geiszlerian_ that without it Newton feels… _ingenuine._

"I can do both," the biologist shoots back. "Prof by day, rockstar by night."

"Wonderful plan," Hermann drawls, "I'm sure you'll look _horrid,_ " and pretends that he doesn't know what the other looks like in his 'rockstar' getup; that his heart didn't beat just a little bit faster when, all those years back, he gave into the temptation to look for photos of the other from his band performances. That the same wouldn't happen now.

Newton peels off his gloves with a snap; tosses them in the direction of the trashbin; strides over the line and sprawls himself over Hermann's office-chair; puts his feet up on the desk, eyes locked with Hermann's; a challenge.

"I hate you," Hermann says; tiredly; and that's a lie; but he can't say anything _else,_ not like this; not now; not when it's _Newton._ "You pest."

The other grins at him; wide, eyes half-lidded with sleep; unknowing; opens his mouth to say something—

The kaiju alarm blares.

" _Fuck!_ " Newton yelps; overbalances and falls out of the chair, hitting his head with a nasty-sounding _crack_ against the floor and Hermann winces in sympathy; already scrambling down the ladder to his side.

"Are you alright?" he asks; hovering, hands awkward at his sides, for once ignoring the voice in his head that screams that he musn't _show_ Newton, musn't let him see this _weakness_ and the other blinks up at him; slightly dazed and—and _sad._

"Fine, just—surprised," he hisses, and Hermann can't help the way his hands dart to the other's shoulder, for the barest moment before he remembers himself; pulls away. Newt looks up at him and he looks so sad and sincere and lost, that Hermann wants nothing more than to run his fingers through Newt's hair and make sure he never looks that way again.

He doesn't; they have work to do. "Well," Hermann says; purses his lips and straightens; steps back. "Perhaps next time you won't engage in such dangerous stunts."

"Fuck off," Newton mutters; pushes himself up and crosses back over to his own side of the lab, unaware of Hermann's gaze tracking him, carefully, making sure he's not hurt. "I'm gonna need a coffee for this."

(Sometime around five Hermann finds the other passed out on the scant empty area on his table; cheek pressed against the cold metal, hair in disarray, shivering slightly because he's an _idiot_ and only wearing ripped jeans and a thin shirt; purses his lips disapprovingly and fetches his thick parka and drapes it over the biologist, careful not to wake him up.)

* * *

There's a kaiju barely five meters away.

Hermann's head hurts; aches with the enormity of the hivemind they just tried to shove into the narrow parameters of human experience and he is so painfully glad he's only done this _once_ but also, also, _also_ he feels terrible for _Newton_ who has done it _twice_ now, and—

And—

Hermann stumbles; Newton catches him.

He's saying something; _he's_ saying something that he's not sure are words—or at least, not _human_ words at any rate—and then he's leaning against Newton and then they're sitting in a helicopter and the wind is howling and—

"Do you know," Hermann says, only vaguely aware that he is interrupting Newt mid-sentence, "I love you very much."

The other stops; stares at him and blinks. "Well," he says, "I wasn't expecting you to _say_ it."

"…shut up," Hermann says, so _tired,_ and forces his eyes to remain open; bats, ineffectually, at the other's hands when the gently tug his head down into the biologist's lap, card through his hair.

"Be quiet," Newton says, and he _doesn't_ say _everything's going to be okay as long as we stay together_ but Hermann hears it nonetheless; the thought of it letting some of the tightness out of his muscles.

The blades beat above them; soon, they'll be back at the Shatterdome.

But for now, they have this.


	132. 132

**try again?**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "it's never too late to wipe the proverbial slate clean. (they never hated each other anyway)"

* * *

When the kaiju die, it is—

Anticlimactic.

When Newt connects to the brain, it is—partial. Incomplete. Really fucking _painful,_ too, actually, holy _shit fuck_ Newt is really regretting it now, like, ow, ow, _ow._ Hermann was so right. He was right and Newt, for once, is willing to admit that.

When _they_ connect to it together—when _Hermann_ offers to go with him—it is… _better._

Well; kind of. It's still really uncomfortable—he's talking _trying to shove a giant hivemind into terms that humans understand,_ here, it's going to be uncomfortable. But it's… _more._ Even after, when they're in the helicopter, Newt can feel it; the thousands of beats of hearts and minds on the fringes of his mind—faint, but ever-present. Hermann can feel it, too, he knows; he can feel that.

And even thought the kaiju are, well, prefabricated killing machines that are part of a hivemind, they…they're really very much _individual,_ too. They have thoughts and emotions and—not _connections,_ exactly, to each other, but…they feel. When one dies, they all feel it, and Newt thinks they… _mourn_ it. No; he knows they mourn it. They're mourning Otachi, now, in the backs of their minds, tucked away from the Precursors.

The Breach closes.

The kaiju are—

 _Gone._

Newt gasps; the sound lost in the cheering, and he stumbles; off-kilter from the sudden _absence_ in his mind; and they've only _been_ there for barely a day but—

Hermann feels it too, he thinks; not as much, but the look on his face shows that he gets it, and he lets Newt lean into him; lets him hide his face in his vest with a soundless keen; because even though the kaiju have been trying to _kill them_ Newt is in _pain_ at their passing.

"Newton?" Hermann asks, the sound only audible because, in a way, it is not _Hermann_ who is saying it but also _Newt_ who is saying it and, wow, okay this is confusing. "Do you need a moment?" and this time they _both_ startle because _that_ sounds _just_ a bit Geiszlerian.

"M—maybe," Newt hisses, "that'd be rather nice, if you don't mind."

They make it up to the lab. Barely. The sofa is _not_ very comfortable, but it's more comfortable than either of their beds, which might as well be a layer of bricks with a thin matress on top of them, so it'll do.

"Shoulda done this earlier," Newt says, half to himself as Hermann leans against him. "It's nice."

"Cosy," Hermann says; though whether or not he means what Newt does is kinda unclear. His head is on Newt's shoulder, and his hair is sweat-slicked against his forehead, and his skin is almost clammy. They're both filthy.

Somehow, it makes Newt think about their first meeting.

What a year.

He went back to his hotel in tears after biting them back for over an hour. To be fair, it _wasn't_ Hermann's fault, solely; Newt was a massive dick too. They were both massive dicks.

Hermann shifts. "You were _more_ of one," he says, and Newt wonders if he said that aloud or if Hermann just heard him thinking it. He stares at Hermann's fingers instead of asking that. Huh. Hermann has very _nice_ fingers.

"That," Hermann says, "is one of the oddest things you've said to me in a while."

"Shut up," Newt says.

* * *

There were letters.

Or.

There will be letters. There are letters. The letters are there and not there and gone and not gone all at once. Time is finicky when you Drift with beings from an alternate universe. The Anteverse runs a bit differently time-wise.

There were the first letters, of course; these they both remember. The academic ones. Newt picking apart Hermann's theories and enthusing about them all in one, and Hermann shooting back a retort that is similarly cutting and awed, once every two weeks, like clockwork, and then when the post office refused to take anything overseas, through email.

And then—

Silence. Breakage?

"Rupture," Hermann supplies, pressed, still, into his side.

Rupture, Newt agrees. He's still not sure if he's talking out loud, but Hermann's understanding him, so—so whatever.

 _Disasterous_ rupture. _Painful,_ too. Newt felt like his breath had been stolen from his lungs. Hermann probably thinks he's being a drama queen, but it's an accurate representation. Well; if one considers Hermann as the air he was breathing. It's not exactly inaccurate to put it like that, though.

Hermann huffs; fingers worming their way around Newt's waist; cold even through all the layers separating them. "Ridiculous," he says, and Newt doesn't know if he means the metaphor, the number of layers between them, or both.

Newt's leaning towards the _both_ option considering the (mutual) amount of _desire_ going on around here.

"Love," he says, suddenly, and, yep, _that_ is out loud and brings Hermann to a halt. "But…I loved you." He gives a hum—this is, like, "new knowledge, here," he clarifies, "and," _it's not every day you realise_ "I love you. I still do. In a better world, that would have been enough," _to stop us from hating each other._

This is trippy.

"This is trippy," Newt says, and presses the heel of his palm against his eye, and then the pressure's gone because Hermann has pulled it away.

"Your eye is bleeding," he says, in explanation, and his grip is gentle on Newt's wrist. "I don't want you to hurt yourself."

Mm. "Yours is, too," he says. "Left eye?"

Hermann nods. "We're both human," he says, "we make mistakes."

"A-fucking-men to that," Newt mutters. "God. I want to clock my past self for being a dick."

"Understandable," Hermann hums, "I do, often, as well."

"Oh god, shut up," Newt says; rolls his eyes, and then winces at the slight discomfort of it. "Do you, uh, wanna try again?"

"That…" Hermann trails off; and then a moment later, realises what he's trying to say. "Ah. Yes. I would."

Newt grins. "Great. My name's Newt. Newt Geiszler. Pleased to meet you, also, I kinda love you."

"Newton," Hermann says, and smiles back, tentatively, grip slipping from his wrist to his palm, fingers lacing with his. "I'm Hermann Gottlieb. I love you too."


	133. 133

**warmth**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "the origins of the infamous parka"

* * *

Anchorage in the winter is bitterly cold; even moreso with the post-Tresspasser nuclear winters. The cold permeates everything, piercing like knives. Even the other members of the K-Sciences division are feeling it through their many layers—and Hermann, who has always gotten cold far easier than anyone he knows, has been feeling it doubly.

His first course of action, like his colleagues, is _layers_ —as many as physically possible. Undershirt and underarmour shirt and then a shirt over than and then a button-up and vest and blazer and on the very top, the thickest parka he can get his hands on, and still, he spends his days shivering miserably; hands shaking so hard that he can barely write.

It's Stevenson who notices it first; she's the most perceptive, but then, it hardly requires a _genius_ to figure out that one _shivers_ because they are _cold._ She approaches him after-hours bearing a mug of hot tea.

"Thank you," Hermann mutters, taking it from her. "What can I do for you? If this is about the reports—"

She shakes her head. "It's not about work, Gottlieb," she says, "it's about _you._ You're barely getting any work done with the cold."

Hermann flushes; clenches and unclenches his hands around the mug. "I'm working on it, sir," he says, stiffly, "don't worry—I'll be back to my usual productivity soon."

The other frowns at him. "It's _not_ about work, Gottlieb," she says, again, "I'm— _we_ are worried about you. You're going to catch your death in this place, and that's not something _any_ of us would wish on you. Plus, if you get sick, we probably will too."

"Dr. Geiszler would," Hermann points out, and then bites his tongue when he realises what he's said; watches the other's brow raise.

"…I didn't say anything about Geiszler," she says.

"Well we both know he _would,_ " Hermann says, because at this point there's no point in trying to deflect. "But—don't worry, sir. I'll…" he pauses; purses his lips. "I'll…take a sick-leave if I feel that I'm getting ill."

She nods; satisfaction. "Good. And consider investing in a pair of gloves or a scarf or something—just looking at you is making me cold."

* * *

He doesn't get sick.

He does, however, get trapped in the lab with Geiszler after-hours, which is, arguably, worse; the other is an arrogant arsehole—and, worse, an _intelligent_ one, at that; and Geiszler makes sure everyone knows it. If he weren't, quite literally, the foremost scientist in his field, the PPDC would have fired him long ago.

Hermann's just come down to retrieve some papers—the only printer suited to his needs is located in the xenobiology lab, for reasons he can't fathom; it's late—he's the last of the maths division still up, to his knowledge, and he expects the xeno lab to be deserted.

And at first, it seems to be.

It's _not_ deserted, as Hermann realises, mere minutes later, when there's the sound of glass shattering on the ground, a high voice yelling " _FUCK!_ ", the blaring sound of the quarantine alarm, and the horrible feeling of his socks getting wet. When he looks down, he finds his shoes have sort of— _melted_ onto his feet.

"Oh, God," he says, faintly, and grips his cane; tight.

There's the sound of footsteps, and then his shoes are being— _washed off._

"Sorry, sorry—"

Hermann raises his gaze to meet the offending party's. " _Geiszler,_ " he hisses, eyes narrowed, and his lip twitches. "I cannot _believe_ you—"

"It's not going to kill you!" the other exclaims, "stop whining and step out of the puddle. Oh stop glaring at me—you can get another pair of shoes."

" _You ruined my single pair of winter boots!_ " Hermann shouts, and he strides forward, face dangerously close to the other's; raises his hand to poke the other's chest sharply with his index finger. "Do _not_ tell me to _calm down_ you _irresponsible_ little _cretin_ of a man!"

"I'm was trying to help you!" Geiszler shouts back, and sets the pitcher of water down on the table by him; the force of the plastic pitcher making it clang against the table dully.

"Well then _stop!_ " Hermann cries.

"Fine!" Geiszler retorts and returns to his desk to skulk, leaving Hermann standing barefoot in the melted puddle of his shoes, his pants soaked up to the knees.

It takes two minutes to realise that, with the quarantine, he's trapped in here for the next hour—well, now, fifty-eight minutes—with Geiszler.

It takes him about two seconds after that to start shivering violently, teeth chattering.

Damnit, he should have worn his parka instead of deluding himself with the notion that he would be just fine with an extra sweater.

He sighs and takes a seat. There's no point in putting extra stress on his leg, especially when he's already very stressed as is—the pain from being cold, and _standing_ for long periods while cold is the _last_ thing he wants right now.

He wraps an arm around himself in a vain attempt to try and keep warm.

There's a cough. "Uh…Her—Gottlieb?"

Geiszler. He doesn't even have the energy to give the other the glare he deserves. "What."

"You can have my jacket," Geiszler says, not meeting his gaze, and thrusts a thick, fur-hooded parka on him, "your lips are blue and they _will_ fire me if you wind up with hypothermia because of this."

Hermann blinks at him; opens his mouth to speak, but Geiszler has already turned away and gone back to his own desk. Hermann scowls weakly at his retreating form but pulls the coat on, warmth the likes of which he hasn't felt in _ages_ settling over his skin moments later.

The next day, he tries to return the coat. Geiszler refuses to let him even finish his sentence. "Keep it," he says, "you probably poisoned it or something. There's no way I'm taking it back now."

* * *

Seven years later, a continent away, and with most of their personnel and funding gone, they win the war.

Geiszler—Newton, now, and, God, when did that happen? He can't remember—nearly dies Drifting with a kaiju brain; and then they _both_ very nearly pass out from Drifting with _another_ kaiju brain, this time together—to lighten the load, Hermann blusters, hoping that the other will chalk the ruddiness of his cheeks up to the cold sting of the howling wind rather than—something _else._

And then they're racing through the corridors of the Shatterdome, and then they're watching as Mako and Ranger Beckett's vitals both blink on screen and they've done it. They've won.

Hermann lets out a shaky breath; eyes fluttering shut with relief.

By his side, Newton wobbles, and Hermann remembers that he's been awake for far longer than is probably healthy. "We ought to go to medical," he murmurs, and, for once, Newton doesn't make any protest; just lets Hermann steer him towards the medical wing and sits sedately as the doctors check them both over.

In the end, they're told they're to stay in the medical wing for the night. Neither of them has the energy to complain at that—but when someone suggests they perhaps let go of each other and lay down in separate beds, Newton makes a strangled sound and Hermann's grip on him tightens.

"That is— _not_ what we will be doing," he says, stiffly; glares until the doctor backs down and says something about finding a bigger bed.

"Thanks," Newton murmurs, later, when the lights have been turned out and they're laying side by side in a larger-than-average cot. "I know you probably don't really want to but—thanks."

"Shut up," Hermann says, too tired to think up anything more witty. "And don't assume anything of me, dear."

"Dear?" Newton says, and Hermann can feel, if not see, the raised brow.

There's a pause, and Newton shifts to fix his gaze with Hermann's. "Hermann. What do you mean, 'dear'?"

"It means you're dear to me," Hermann says; for once, not hiding behind half-said things and assumptions. "I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you'd prefer. But I wanted to say that, first."

Newton blinks at him; silent, and then: "C'mere."

"I'm laying _right_ next to you," Hermann points out, but he shifts a bit so he's on his side, his face is closer to Newton's. The other's hand is gentle on his cheek. "I take it that means you're amenable."

"Yeah," Newton says, and there's a hint of a smile.

Hermann kisses him; inelegant; and then, again, and again; chaste, but, well—they're both very, very tired. "I'm usually better at this," he says, half apologetic, when he finally pulls away.

"That's okay," Newton says, "you can keep trying however many times you want to until you get it perfect."

Hermann smiles. "That's a very nice thought," he says, softly, and takes Newton's hand in his.


	134. 134

**first drafts**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "after the War, they have to clean out the lab. Newt stumbles across a box of Hermann's, which leads, surprisingly, to a rather nice conclusion."

* * *

It's a nice day outside.

The sun is shining; the weather isn't too warm; the trees are blossoming now that it's spring; it's not too loud, either, given the size of the population; and, perhaps most importantly, giant beasts from another dimension no longer threaten to rise from a portal in the Pacific Ocean.

Hermann, sadly, is not outside.

No; he's inside, nursing a growing headache, because Newton Geiszler is packing—specifically, he's packing while playing his God-awful excuse for _music_ at ear-piercing levels.

"Newton," Hermann says, finally, after an hour of it, tone clipped, trying not to snap, "can you _please_ turn that off?"

The other sets another beaker in the box he's got in front of him. "Sorry, Hermann," he says, "you _know_ I can't concentrate when I'm in an environment that's too quiet."

"Than can you _at least_ put on headphones?" Hermann asks, hoping he doesn't sound _too_ desperate.

"You know that'll only make it seem louder," he points out. "Drift fuckery. Sorry, man." He shrugs, and then adds, "But if you want, I can turn it down a notch or two."

"Yes," Hermann says, and then, because he feels he ought to say it more anyway, "thank you."

The other blinks at him wordlessly for a few seconds, and then, as if coming out of a stupor, says, "Uh. Yeah, no problem."

Hermann returns to his own task of sorting through years worth of papers. Despite what many may think, he's not actually as organised as he seems, and, quite frankly, a good half of the things he's got shoved to the bottom of his desk drawers are as much a mystery to him content-wise as they are to anyone else.

Some time later, Newton calls his name, breaking his concentration. When he looks up, Newton is holding a box up. "I think this is yours," he says, "going by the handwriting on the sticky-note."

Hermann desperately wracks his mind, trying to remember what on earth could possibly be in it. "Alright," he says, finally. "Bring it here."

"I'll just set it on your desk," Newton says, and hurries over.

"Careful—!"

But it's too late; Newton doesn't realise the slight difference in the elevation of the floor—that Hermann has been _warning_ him about for _years_ —and trips, dropping the box. He fumbles with it for a moment, trying to catch it, but only succeeds in grabbing the lid off and sending the actual _box_ flying through the air and hitting the ground, throwing papers up all over the place.

It's exactly at this moment that Hermann remembers what is in that box.

Letters.

Or, rather, _drafts_ of letters—specifically, drafts to _Newton,_ full of all the things he never dared to say in the final copies.

He scrambles to pick them up, half-panicking. He manages to get about half of them before he hears Newton say, "Uh."

He turns around to see Newton holding one of the papers, cheeks a little bit pink. "Wow," he says.

Oh; dear.

"I think I'm going to go," Hermann says, weakly, grabbing the box.

"Wait, Hermann—!"

Hermann's already grabbed his cane and made his way out the door, leaving Newton behind him, the box clutched to his chest, cheeks burning.

* * *

"And then he read it?" Karla asks him later, when he skypes her in a panic.

"And then he read it," Hermann groans, and shoves his face into the pillow, no longer meeting Karla's gaze on the laptop he's left on the table. "And then he _read_ it."

"Well, it could be worse," Karla points out.

Hermann makes a noncommittal noise. "It could be _better_ ," he counters. "He—Karla, he read my _drafts_."

He doesn't mention the content of them; Karla already knows, given the he spent many a night bemoaning what went into them to her, years ago. "He'll surely hate me now. Oh, Karla! I can't imagine what he must be thinking—we shan't be able to be close anymore, I'm sure of it."

"Oh, quit being dramatic," she snaps, "he's probably just a bit surprised, is all. I'm sure it won't be too bad."

Hermann sighs. "You're right," he says, "anyway, I'm sure I can simply—play it off as a past interest. After all, he has no reason to suspect anything else." He presses his hand to the mattress and rises. Karla, when he glances at the screen, is giving him a flat look.

"Alright, then," she says, and that's all, but Hermann can feel the exasperation in her tone. "Well—it's time for me to go. Goodbye, _Brüderchen_."

"Goodbye, Karla," he returns, and the call disconnects.

After that, he spends the hour or so before he's willing to go to bed drinking tea and trying to read a book he's started, to no avail. In the end, after having read the same page a good fifteen times and still having no idea what's going on, he sighs and closes it and gets into bed, resolving to confront Newton the next morning and put this whole mess all to rights.

He runs into Tendo on the way down to Newton's quarters—it's a weekend, so Hermann assumes the biologist will still be asleep; he's not a morning person, but unlike Hermann, he doesn't stick to a strict morning routine; it's a rare day, now, after the war, that Newton will be awake before noon.

"You looking for Newt?" Tendo asks, conversationally.

Hermann tenses; has Newton said something about the incident last night? "Yes, why?" he asks, guardedly.

"Oh, I just wanted to know if you have any idea what he was so worked up about last night," Tendo says, with a shrug. "He wouldn't tell me what happened—did you guys get into a bad fight or something?"

Hermann breathes a sigh of relief. "You could say that," he replies. "I, er—I figured I ought to set things right, you know, so.." He gestures widely.

"Ah," Tendo says, "well, do you mind if I walk with you? I'm on my way to get breakfast, so—"

"Of course," Hermann cuts in. "In fact, I'd rather appreciate the company."

They walk in silence, but Hermann had told the truth; he really _does_ appreciate the company, even if Tendo doesn't speak as they walk; it simply eases Hermann's mind to have someone walking by his side.

He pointedly doesn't think about _who_ it is who usually walks by his side.

When they get to Newton's door, Hermann riffles through his pockets and pulls out the key to Newton's door, ignoring Tendo's raised eyebrow at that, and unlocks the door.

He frowns.

"Tendo," he says, "please tell me what you see in Newton's quarters."

Tendo does. "It's, uh…clean?" he ventures.

Hermann nods. " _Exactly_ ," he says. "Now, when has Newton _ever_ kept his quarters _clean?_ "

"…never," Tendo says.

"Exactly," Hermann says, again, and then: "oh dear. Did someone _kidnap_ him?"

Tendo scoffs. "Not unless they kidnapped all of his things," he points out.

"Ah, yes." Hermann sighs. "I—well, he must…" he searches his mind to figure out what could possibly be going on. "Well," he says, "er.."

"I'll get going," Tendo says, "good luck finding him."

"I think I'll rather need it," Hermann says, with a sigh, and watches for a moment as Tendo walks away. Then, with trepidation, he steps into Newton's quarters in search of clues as to what happened.

It takes a minute for him to realise the room isn't actually _bare;_ rather, Hermann is so used to a horrid state of messiness that the tidiness our now displays seems, in comparison, barren.

And then the bathroom door opens, and he turns, slightly alarmed, to find Newton Geiszler standing in the doorway, hair styled, and wearing a very, _very_ well-fitting pair of jeans and a flattering blue shirt.

Hermann isn't about to pretend that the image isn't—well. _Appealing_.

He stares, frankly a bit confused. "Newton?" he says. "I thought you were gone—?"

"Hermann!" Newton squeaks, just before he manages to get the words out, and a red blush spreads down his neck and over his chest, a sliver of which is exposed, as he's left two buttons open. "I, uh—wasn't expecting to see you until later!"

Hermann shakes himself out of whatever stupor he's fallen into. "Er—yes, sorry, it's just that I came to apologise about last night. Sorry, er, I see you're busy, and obviously expecting someone, I'll get going—"

Newton shakes his head. "No don't bother—I was just getting myself, uh, cleaned up, to, well…" he drops his gaze. "Come see you."

"… _me?_ " Hermann gapes.

"Yeah," Newton says, "I was going to ask—but anyway, you're here now, so I guess I can ask now!"

"Newton, what—?"

"Hermann, I really really like you, will you go out with me please?"

He says it in a rush of breath; leaves Hermann blinking dazedly at him. Finally, he says the first thing that comes to mind. "I thought you were kidnapped. Your room's tidy."

"Oh yeah," Newton says, and laughs nervously. "I, uh, cleaned it up in…well, optimistic expectation, honestly. I figured if things went—well, that way, you'd probably appreciate it."

"Yes," Hermann says, faintly, "I do. Sorry, I think I need to process some things. Do you mind if I sit?"

"Oh—! No, go ahead," Newton says, so Hermann gingerly sits on the edge of his bed. "I was going to ask you later, but…" he trails off sheepishly.

"Right," Hermann says, after a few moments if staring blankly at the wall. "Er—sorry, can you run that all by me again?"

Newton smiles; partly fondness, partly anxiety. "I really like you, and I'd like to take you on a date and kiss you," he says, patiently.

"Oh!" Hermann says, and then begins to smile. "Well—I'd rather like the both of those."

"Great," Newton says, and grins.

"You, ah, said something about _kissing…?_ "

Newton laughs. "Yeah," he says, and sits down next to Hermann. "Yeah, I did."

When they emerge ten minutes later from Newton's still tidy quarters to get something to eat, Hermann's shirt is rumpled and his hair is no longer combed down, and Newton is wearing a euphoric grin. Between them, their hands are clasped together.


	135. 135

**to think we could stay the same**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: **"After Newt's cleared of any Precursor influence, Hermann's the one to give him the news that he's free to leave the Shatterdome. Understandably, given how long he's been alone, Newt asks to stay with Hermann.

Some things never change, apparently, and what they had between them is there still."

* * *

The scent of the ocean is heavy in the air; it's been a long time since Hermann has smelt it. Decades, probably—long before the first War with the Anteverse. The windows of the bus are cracked open, and he can see the coast out of them—the Coastal Wall never took hold here, not really. The locals were too stubborn for it, and Lars never managed to convince them of it.

It's calming, almost; even as he has to grip the rail and dig his feet into the floor as the bus goes over a rough patch of ground; he always did love the ocean, even when it was spewing forth beasts that were trying to kill them all.

The memory of standing, triumphant, in the first sunrise after the War—they called it the War, then; knew no better, that a second one was already brewing—, Newton's grip on him tight, comes unbidden; the warmth of him, the comfort, and Hermann blinks rapidly at it; trying to banish it, because he _will_ cry if he lets it go on, and he doesn't want to do that in public.

Finally, it's his stop; the auto-generated voice announcing the street over the speakers, pulling him back down to Earth, and he licks his lips; lets his grip slip, arm falling to his side, and gets off with the other passengers who've been waiting for this stop.

The trip from his office to his flat isn't a long one; barely fifteen minutes, and yet, somehow, it inevitably feels like it takes years. Perhaps it's just because he gets so caught up in his thoughts.

His flat is small and rather bare, even now that he's lived in it for years—he never was one for personalisation, something Newton always needled him about. Well; before.

He remembers the day before; he thinks he had known, even then, that it was about to end soon; just didn't know the enormity of it. Newton had taken him out for dinner—a high-end place, one that they never would have been able to afford before, during the War—and paid for everything, on his best behaviour.

Newton had ordered him his favourite desert—a sweet, many-layered honeycake, and watched him with a gentle expression as he sheared off pieces with his fork and ate it. Then, Hermann had thought that it was merely one of though. In hindsight, he can see the pain of loss in Newton's eyes.

It was a lovely night; Newton had been so gentle and tender, and at the end of it, he had told Hermann that he wanted to be done, and Hermann had bit his tongue. "Why'd you bother with tonight, then?" he'd asked.

Newton had smiled; quiet, and a bit sad. "I loved you," he had said, simply, "and you don't deserve to have it end painfully."

 _Ah;_ and Hermann had swallowed thickly and said, less of a realisation and more of a confirmation, "You don't love me, but you used to." Newton had nodded; expression still that odd mixture of sadness and— _something._

"Yes," he'd said, his hold on Hermann loose. "Yes, I did."

"I—I wanted to—say thank you, for that," Hermann says, finally; barely a whisper, an his eyes were closed, because he could bear no longer to look at the other. "I—thank you. Thank you, Newton. It's been—it's been wonderful."

When Newton had spoken, all he'd said was, "I'm glad."

They'd fallen asleep like that; clothed in loose sleep-attire, arm-in-arm, for the last time. When Hermann had woken, he was alone; the impression of another body by his long gone, the warmth having seeped from it in the hours since, and there was no trace of the other except for how carefully the covers had been tucked around Hermann to keep him warm. Save for that, it was as if the other had never been there.

And now, it is after; and Hermann's flat is bereft of Newton still, except for the memory of him.

They're keeping him in the Shatterdome holding cells, still, though he's been officially cleared of any Precursor influence; the logical part of Hermann understands that they need him for the War effort, for the offensive, for the information he can give them about the Anteverse and the Precursors; the human part of him hates them with a burning passion for it.

He's seen him a few times—well. More than a few. He's seen him many times, but he's only seen _Newton,_ himself, a few. He's—God, he's changed so much, and yet. And yet, he's still the Newton Hermann carries around in his memories.

Hermann's been trying to get him released—not on his own, obviously; they would never allow it, and Hermann knows that Newton wouldn't do well. He's been alone for so long—with _Them,_ yes, but alone still, and Hermann can read it in the crack of his voice and the jerkiness of his movements and the pain and hollowness in the Drift and the way he presses into Hermann's touch, the times Hermann has put a hand on his arm or brushed against him.

It's just so—damn _frustrating,_ how _slowly_ it goes.

He sighs; scrubs a hand over his face. Well; there isn't any more he can do today.

* * *

It's three more weeks of terse conversations and sharply-worded emails before, finally, he manages it; Newton is to be allowed to leave, on the condition that he continues to cooperate with the PPDC's efforts to bring the War to the Anteverse.

They charge Hermann with telling him—or rather, Hermann gets into a shouting-match with the Marshal to force them to allow him to be the one to tell Newton. He doesn't regret it much, even if his throat does ache.

"Newton," he greets, as he opens the door, and Newton rises from his bed; sets the tablet he'd been working with down on the mattress and moves to stand before him.

"Hermann," he says, and there's the impression of a smile; not quite a full one, as if he's not sure how to make his muscles form the expression quite, but it's there nonetheless, and it sparks something like happiness in Hermann.

Hermann smiles back. "You're free to go," he says. "I, er, have a list of options for housing, if you'd like to look over them—I figured you'd want a roommate, so the majority of them are requests for roommates—"

"Can I stay with you?"

The words seem to tumble from Newton without his meaning to, because they both blink; surprised, and then Newton adds, hurriedly, "The, uh—Drift and stuff, yanno—"

"Oh no it's quite alright," Hermann cuts in, shaking his head. "I—I understand completely, Newton."

The other's worried expression smooths into one of relief, and he says, "Thank you," and then he shifts from foot to foot, gaze not meeting his, fixed on the floor, as if he wants to ask something and is too hesitant to, and Hermann thinks, _ah._

In a single step, he's bridged the distance between them and pulled Newton into a tight embrace.

The other doesn't say anything; just melts against him, but Hermann knows he appreciates it.

When they break apart, Hermann says, "The car is outside, so if you'd like…"

"I thought you took public transport," Newton says, and raises a brow.

Hermann flushes a bit. "Yes, usually," he says, "but, I, ah, figured—well, maybe you'd prefer not to deal with that just yet."

"Oh," Newton says, simply, and then: "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Hermann murmurs.

The ride back is quiet, but not tense; Newton hasn't much stuff, so it's easy to get him settled into the guest bedroom—Hermann is, suddenly, very glad he insisted on that, years ago, when they moved in here and the something between them was unspoken and he'd figured it would be better to be safe than sorry.

They eat a light meal; sandwiches, and Newton pulls his apart into small pieces before eating them, so it takes longer than it probably should, but Hermann doesn't mind much; he's taken the day off.

"Would you like to go anywhere?" he asks, "there's still a few hours until I have to return the car."

"Uh—park, maybe?" Newton ventures. "I haven't been to one in ages, so…"

The rest is left unspoken, but the implication—of Newton being overworked half to death by _Them_ —is not one that sits easily with Hermann, so he says, "Of course. Any preferences?"

Newton shrugs. "Nah," he says. "Just—green."

* * *

The engine of the car hums beneath them; and Hermann watches Newton out of the corner of his eye. He's sat in the passenger-seat beside him, and for the first time Hermann can remember in a long, long time, he's not tense; though he looks a bit wary, he's sitting loosely in the seat, hands folded in his lap, foot tapping absently on the floor.

"I've missed you," he says, without prompting, and Hermann wonders why he's said it.

"I've missed you as well," he says, because honesty is the best policy, and he is no longer the man he once was, and because Newton has always been safe to him; because he doesn't need to worry about being hurt with him. "Very much."

Newton's mouth curls into a thin smile. "Been a while since I've said it," he says. "What—twenty-five years?"

"Something like that," Hermann agrees. "I think I always knew you meant it, though, even when you didn't say it. _I_ always meant it."

"I know," Newton says, and his hands unclasp, and one of them settles on Hermann's leg. Hermann takes one of his own hands off the steering-wheel to place it over his. "And…and I love you."

The admission doesn't seem like one, really; in part, perhaps, because it's just the voicing of what they both know to be true, so Hermann smiles and squeezes Newton's hand lightly. "I love you too," he says.

"If you weren't driving, I'd kiss you senseless," Newton says, and it's slightly hesitant, as if he's unsure if he's allowed this, and that won't do. Hermann pulls over to the shoulder of the road and turns the key in the ignition, the engine's purr silenced.

"Not driving anymore," he says, simply, and watches Newton's expression change from uncertainty to surprise and then, finally, a fierce joy, and then he's leaning in, a mere fraction of an inch between them.

"No, you're not," he says, and then he kisses him.


	136. 136

**let your walls down**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "In which Newt proposes a vacation, falls asleep on Hermann, and Hermann realises that he can finally let his defences down"

* * *

"Let's go on vacation," Newton says; his upper lip bloodied and his iris, too; his jacket ripped and beviscerad, and it's getting onto Hermann a bit to, given that he's pressed to Hermann's side. His breath whispers over the skin of Hermann's neck; he's laid his head on Hermann's shoulder, and Hermann has let him.

Hermann makes a wordless noise—he's so damn _tired,_ he can't summon up the energy to force his mouth to move—and shifts his shoulder slightly so that Newton can more comfortably lean against him. "Vacation," Newton says again; and it strikes Hermann, suddenly, that, sitting here, on his bed, this—is strangely _intimate._

He licks his lips. "Where?" he croaks, finally, and he raises a tired hand to rub at his own eye.

"Mm," says Newton, and leaves it at that. It takes a few moments for Hermann to realise that he's fallen asleep on Hermann, and then he sighs, and gently, as well as he can manage, moves the biologist so he's laying down on the bed instead of uncomfortably half-sprawled against Hermann.

Newton makes a quiet little sound—unintentional, Hermann's sure—, and shifts slightly; grasping at Hermann in his sleep. "Newton," Hermann murmur, meaning to pry his fingers away gently, but he stops. There's no need for this, now; never has been, if he's telling the truth. The distance between them has been something he's enforced out of fear of the closeness that is the alternative, but it's not something he's ever been _fond_ of.

So he lets the hand stay, at least as long as he can, and then changes into clean night-clothes and that means he has to remove Newton's hand, but he holds it with a free one of his own as he does.

Then, when he's done, he takes another look at him; and smiles. Newton is—well. He's a sight for sore eyes, even bloodied and dirtied.

Hermann gets into the bed beside him, and allows himself to just—be. To breathe. His eyes slip closed with the image of Newton Geiszler's silent, soft face on the pillow beside him.

* * *

When Hermann awakes, it's quiet; gentle. The curtains have been left open, part-way, so the sunlight throws long, thin slivers of light onto them. His eyes open slowly, and the soft of Newton's face fills his vision. They're closer together, and Newton's wearing a change of clothes, so Hermann assumes that he must have gotten up, changed, and then laid back down.

The thought warms him, and it takes him a few moments to realise Newton's eyes haven't shifted from his face. "Have you been staring at me?" he asks, voice sleep-roughed, and the corners of Newton's eyes crinkle.

"Can you blame me?" he murmurs, "you're beautiful when you're relaxed."

Hermann'd flush if he were more awake, but as is, he's just pleasantly floating. Happy. "Shushhhh," he says, yawning at the end, and shifts closer so that he's pressed against Newton.

"Mm," Newton murmurs, and Hermann's fairly sure he's smiling. "Dude, let's go on vacation. Together."

"You said that last night, too," Hermann points out. "And you _still_ haven't explained it. What would we even _do?_ "

Newton shrugs; a soft, fluid motion, oddly familiar, and he says, "We deserve a break, y'know. I'd like to see my folks again if you're up for it—I think Uncle Illia and Dad'll both like you. Plus, they've been bugging me to bring you over for like, ever, since, uh, we started writing…" he trails off.

Hermann half-chokes on spit in surprise. "I—well," he sputters, and hides his blushing face in the pillow. Newton laughs. "Not Florida, though," he says, once he stops.

"What's wrong with _Florida?_ " Hermann asks, and turns his head to peer at Newton.

"Too many oranges," says Newt. "I hope the bastards drown in oranges."

It's—funny, the words themselves, but it's not that that Hermann focuses on; it's the fact that he's just thought of him as _Newt_ rather than _Newton_ and it felt quite—quite _right,_ like a puzzle-piece fitting right in place with the rest of the pieces.

He blinks; surprised, and Newton catches sight of it. "What's up?" he asks, and reaches out, fingers falling to Hermann's hand.

"I— _thinking,_ " Hermann manages; and then, because now he's thought of it, he can't _unthink_ it and he _has_ to say it, "we've known each other so—long."

"Eleven years," Newton says, placidly, and his fingers, warm and calloused, twine with Hermann's. "Yeah."

"Yes, yes—it's just—well," Hermann stammers to a halt, and then starts again. "Well. It's just—I've never thought of you as—as anything but _Newton,_ until. Until now."

Newton gives a hum; an invitation to continue, and Hermann does. "I—well, I just. Thought of you as— _Newt._ " And he gives Newton a searching look; imploring, really; because _Newton_ is better at this than he is, would know about this better than he would, but instead of replying, he just smiles; then grins.

"Took you long enough," he teases, "finally got through your exoskeleton, huh?"

" _Humans_ can't have exoskeletons, Newton," he snaps. "You're a biologist—you _know_ that." He tries not to feel hurt.

Newton notices, though, and he says, "Hey, hey, no—I didn't mean it like that. It's—" he hesitates. "It's very _sweet,_ " he says, finally. "I'm… _glad_ we're close enough for that."

Hermann relaxes. "Oh," he says, and then he, too, begins to smile.

There's a—warmth, between them; maybe the warmth of Newton's hand in his own, and he suddenly _sees_ it; a thread of courage, and he licks his lips; fairly sure this is true, and fearing it isn't, and pushing the fear aside to lean in.

"Hermann?" Newton murmurs, eyes wide, when there's barely a hair's-breath between them; and it sounds— _anticipatory;_ wondering.

Hermann closes the gap; chastely, and Newton kisses him back; curls into him. When they pull apart, Newton's grinning. "I _knew_ it," he crows, quietly.

"Shut up," Hermann says, but he's grinning as well.


	137. 137

**again and again**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "A day in the life of Newton Geiszler, happily married, post-Pitfall"

* * *

Newt wakes up before the alarm.

On any other day, that'd be a _good_ thing, but today, not so much, given he wakes up literally a minute before it's set to ring at six in the morning, and by the time he's actually cracked his eyes open and shoved his glasses on, the alarm is beeping at him.

" _Newton_ ," Hermann, still under the covers, hair fanned out over his pillow, groans, sleep making his voice rough, "turn it _off_."

Newt tries not to smile at the other's voice, and fumbles for the off button.

When he finally manages it, he turns to look at the other fully. He's rolled over to squint at Newt through long, dark lashes, and, laying there, against the white of the sheets, he looks like something out of a painting. They've been married nearly a year and still, the sight leaves Newt breathless; awed.

" _Newton_ ," Hermann says again, and this time his hand creeps out from beneath the warmth of the covers. "Do you really _have_ to get up just yet…?"

His words are sleep-mellowed, but Newt can feel the longing in them through what still remains of the Drift bond, and it _does_ make him smile. "I have _work_ ," he points out, but it's only half-hearted.

"Not until _eight_ ," Hermann counters. "Please?"

"Oh, alright," Newt says, "if you insist." As if it's some sort of _hardship_ —frankly, Newt is just as eager to curl under the covers again, with Hermann, who is half-asleep, and blinking slowly at him, lips slightly parted.

The instant he lays back down, Hermann curls against him, pressing his frigid hands and feet to Newt like some sort of heat-seeking missile. " _Dude_ ," Newt protests, "come _on_ …"

"Shh," Hermann says, and nuzzles Newt's neck.

Newt smiles again. God. He loves Hermann so much.

Eventually, though, he _does_ have to get up—to much grumbling from his partner—, and get dressed, and actually go to _work_ , which, while not pressing in the way it was in the War, is still pretty important.

"You were _constantly_ late," Hermann reminds him, glaring balefully at being abandoned in bed.

"Shut up," Newt huffs, and tugs at his tie, eyeing it distastefully in the mirror. God, he wishes he had just caved and bought a clip-on, but _no_ , twenty-three-year-old Newt was very dedicated to his image and now Newt spends a minimum of twenty minutes struggling to tie these _damn_ ties because buying clip-ons _now_ would mean having to admit he doesn't _actually_ know how to tie them.

He gives it a tug and grimaces.

Arms wrap around his waist. "Would you like a hand?" Hermann asks, breath tickling the nape of Newt's neck.

"Shut _up_ ," Newt grumbles again, but turns to let the other help. Hermann has to bend over a bit—fucking _height difference_ , it's only _two inches_ —, but he's practised at it, and it only takes him a few moments to pull the tie into shape.

"There," he says, nodding, "I cannot _believe_ you sometimes, honestly, Newton—why not just _ask_ first? We both know you're rubbish at it."

Newt scowls. Sadly, Hermann is right. It's a little song and dance they do nearly _every_ time Newt puts a tie on, these days. Still, it's better than spending half an hour or more every morning rewatching the same youtube videos that never explained the process properly, and Hermann always gives that little satisfied hum when he steps back.

He reaches out to smooth the collar of Newt's shirt; a faint smile turning up the corners of his lips, and; god; Newt could kiss him.

He _can_ kiss him; so he does; softly. Curls his fingers against Hermann's neck, other hand going to his cheek. It's short; not much more than a press of his lips against Hermann's, and when he pulls back, Hermann's looking at him gently.

"I love you," Newt says, grinning at it; and Hermann smiles back.

"I love you too," he says. "Now go put on a pair of trousers and get going before you're late to work."

Newt laughs. "Alright, alright, I'll be out of your hair," he says, "but you gotta let go of me."

Hermann doesn't, and he looks rather miffed at the suggestion as well. "Damn you, you horrid little man," he says.

"If you wanted another kiss you could just _say so_ ," Newt points out, but he's already leaning up to kiss Hermann again. Hermann gives a contented little hum.

Finally, they do break apart though; and Newt grabs a granola-bar on the way out. "See you later, dude!" he calls over his shoulder as he pulls his shoes on.

"Good-bye, Newton," Hermann calls back. "Text me when you get there?"

"'Course," Newt replies, "bye!"

It's so—god, so _stupid_ , honestly, these little things; or Newt would have called them stupid when he was younger, but now, they just make him smile; this routine of theirs, of Newt texting to tell Hermann he got to work on time, and of Hermann calling him during his lunch break to leave a voice-mail rambling about what he's done and the weather and whatever the _hell_ he's got on his mind.

"Someone's cheery," Tendo says, when he meets him in LOCCENT.

"Just happy about life," Newt says, with a shrug.

Tendo's lips twist into a wry smile. "It looks good on you," he says. "And you deserve it."

Newt smiles wider. "Thanks," he says.

It's their anniversary, soon, he realises suddenly; and that thought makes him smile even more widely, so much that his cheeks are hurting with it, but in a good way.

* * *

"Happy anniversary," Hermann says; and he looks _terribly_ awkward, frankly; half-out of breath and smelling a bit like burnt wood, and the smoke alarm is going off above them and the windows are open to let out the billowing smoke. "I, ah, tried to make cookies."

" _Hermann_ ," Newt says, and he's—god, he can't breathe, but it's because of the emotion more than the smoke. "God, I love you," he blurts out suddenly. "I'm so fucking glad we got married. Let's keep getting married every year _forever_."

"That's ridiculous," Hermann says, but his eyes are misty, and Newt _knows_ that's not the smoke; at least, not mainly. "God," he says, and then again, " _God,_ " and his lips are twisting into a rueful smile, and he still looks so _fucking_ awkward and; god; it's adorable.

Newt hugs him; of course he does; and he doesn't even care about the acrid scent of smoke. "I love you," he says, again, and kisses Hermann's cheek. "Please don't try and bake again."

Hermann laughs. "I love you too," he says, "next year I'll order them from the bakery."


	138. 138

**sometimes all it takes is a 48 hour biohazard quarantine**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "When an oversight on the Precursors' part leaves Newt free of their influence for the first time in three years, he does the first thing that comes to his mind—books the first flight to Moyulan to see Hermann."

* * *

It's almost amusing, actually, how it finally goes down.

Not some big event, like he expected. No; Newt dies slowly. Softly. Unaware, at first, that he is even _dying,_ because that's how subtle the Precursors are; their influence brushed off as post-Drift trauma and his usual fuckup of a brain (him) and finally growing up (the rest of the world).

Well; _die_ probably isn't accurate, since he's still living and breathing, but this sure as hell isn't _him_ —or at least, not _mostly._ Some of it _is_ him, the bitter, hollow, jealous part that feels small and inadequate and like a fuckup and thinks the world hates him and thinks he's a joke and hates _everyone_ for it.

He'd like to think he wouldn't be sitting here planning out how to destroy humanity and open Earth up to Precursor colonisers, but—well. Even if _he_ wouldn't, they're still using him to do it.

And then—during a rather low-risk, but hands-on lab experiment, it goes wrong. Or right, really, depending on how you look at it. Right for him, wrong for the Precursors, but really, that's their own damn fault for, you know, ignoring proper safety protocol, but Newt's not about to complain.

He _does_ get trapped in quarantine, though, alone, which is—which is _shit,_ frankly.

"What the _hell?_ " is the first thing they demand, twisting his lips into an angry frown and baring his teeth, irritated by the sound of the alarm. They stride over to the doors—locked—and enter the keycode.

 _Beep. Access denied._

"What the _hell?!_ " they demand again, and try again, jabbing angrily— _painfully_ —at the keypad. It doesn't yield.

It _doesn't yield._ The door stays locked.

"How _long?_ " they hiss, angrily, at the air, and Newt, locked away, grins smugly. He doesn't know. He _doesn't know_ and fuck, that's the _best feeling_ he's felt in a while. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, though, probably; going off of his own experience.

It makes him _viciously_ happy that such a little thing, such a _stupid_ mistake on their part, is inconveniencing them so, and—hah. Hah.

Fuck you, he'd say, if he could _speak._

It takes them two hours to stop yelling angrily at the keypad, and that's only because his vocal-chords give out. They still pound against the—reinforced, near-bullet-proof—glass doors, though. Pity they're mirrored looking _out,_ so no one on the outside can see in. _Such_ a pity that all the other employees at Shao industries know better than to bother him if the lab doors are locked.

He's not sure how long it's been when his stomach growls loudly, twisting painfully. There isn't anything edible in the lab, and though there's water, it's not great.

It's somewhere around the eighteen-hour mark that it happens, though—his skin feeling, suddenly, too small on him, and there's an _itch_ beneath it and his mind is fucking _buzzing_ and he starts to shiver. It's not the cold, he's pretty sure of that—he's wearing _wool_ and the room is only slightly bellow room-temp, but he feels cold and clammy.

"R—ridiculous," they mutter, giving in, finally, to the need to sit down, and Newt's _very_ glad for that but he's _not_ very happy about what's going on because either he's having a panic-attack or he's having withdrawal and he's like, pretty sure they've been taking his meds? Like, 70% sure—he thinks he managed to impress on them that he works better _with_ them, 'cause he doesn't crash and burn after two days.

But…

He's still _feeling_ it, viscerally, in his spine and his ribs, in the marrow of his bones.

It reminds him, strangely enough, of the pain of being apart from Hermann physically, those first few days after the Drift—

Oh.

Well, that makes sense.

And it is _shit._ It is _so_ shit. Right now he'd like nothing more than for that door to fucking _unlock_ and let him back to the apartment so they can hook him back up to Alice so everything stops feeling so fucking _bad._ It hurts. It fucking _hurts,_ he just wants it to be _over._

He swallows thickly; painfully. They've stopped talking—he's not even _glad_ about that, not at _this_ point, because as much as he usually hates hearing his own voice these days he thinks he's literally going to fucking _die_ and he doesn't even _want_ that now.

He doesn't _want_ —

He just—

"Fuck," he whispers hoarsely, as a wave of pain wracks his frame—already weak from lack of sleep and lack of food, and he—god. God, fuck, _fuck._ Just let it be _over._ He'd do _anything_ for it to be over.

The pain stays.

He's not sure how long.

He just knows that it's bad enough that he passes out at some point, finally; blessedly, and when he wakes up, his cheek is pressed against the cold tile of the floor and his stomach feels like it's turned into a black hole and he—

And his _mind is empty._

His mind is empty because _he_ isn't there, anymore, because _he_ just raised his head off the ground and wiped the drool off his cheek and—and _his_ legs tremble and he's still in pain but he can— _he_ can feel it, because it's _his_ pain, right now, all his.

When he tries the lock, the door opens.

He takes a tentative step outside; fists clenching, tightly enough that his nails sting the palms, at his sides.

He takes another.

There's no resistance.

He nearly cries.

No; he _does_ cry.

"Geiszler," comes the sharp tone of Doctor Shao, looking less-than-pleased. "What—?"

"I'm quitting," Newt says, and then, again, with wonder: "I'm _quitting._ "

Her lips tighten into a thin line and Newt can see it; see her weighing her dislike of him over the fact that he's _Newt Geiszler,_ and he can see the moment that the dislike wins, and he's fucking— _overjoyed,_ frankly. She gives a short nod. "Goodbye," she says, simply, and brushes past him without further comment.

He barely notices his surroundings; takes a few minutes at his desk to grab a pen and book a ticket to Moyulan and then he's half-stumbling out of the building to flag a taxi.

His stomach growls again, but this time, the ache is almost comforting; anyway, he doesn't think he _could_ eat right now, if he tried.

* * *

It's raining when he gets there. He hasn't brought an umbrella, and barely manages to make it inside the airport from the tarmac without getting soaked. He doesn't stop at the café to buy a sandwich, or at the gift-shop, and he doesn't buy an umbrella.

There's a bus, though, that runs from the airport to the city-centre and Newt takes that instead of a taxi, and then immediately regrets it because he's surrounded on all sides by _people_ and he can't—he can't fucking _breathe_ and—

And—

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Focuses on the pound of the rain against the windows, lets it drown out everything.

The automated voice announces they've reached the city-centre. He rises. Takes a step.

Sprints off the bus.

He can _feel_ it. He can feel _Hermann._ He's finally close enough to.

He runs.

His leg aches, and his muscles burn, and he can barely see through his glasses, the water soaking into his skin within seconds, his clothes clinging to him, but he runs. He runs.

And then he's here, and coming to a halt, panting, and Hermann is in this building, he can _feel_ it, and he barely makes it up the flight of stairs and with shaking fingers he raises his hand and knocks on the door.

One.

Two.

Three.

He trembles; cold and hollow and more fucking _alive_ than he's been in three years.

There's the sound of footsteps, and then the bolt slides, and the door opens to Hermann.

Newt drinks the sight of him in like a dying man; like he can solve all of his problems just by looking at him, in his ill-fitting clothing and his stupid haircut and his weird face and his too-wide lips and his—his _everything_ and god, god. Newt wants to reach out and touch him but he's frozen; can't even breathe, barely; because he is not—he isn't allowed this, _can't_ be allowed this, and—

"Newton?" Hermann asks, voice low; confused; _worried,_ maybe, even, and his lips purse and his brow furrows and—

And Newt _can't_ do it; not anymore, not like this, and he launches himself, nearly, at Hermann, arms wrapping around the other and he sobs, brokenly, " _Hermann,_ " just the once, the two syllables, but he feels like he's laid himself bare. He can't say anymore.

"What are you doing here?" Hermann asks; not _soft,_ no; it's too… _guarded_ for that and Newt doesn't blame him, really.

"Came to see you," he says, "I—I." And then he stops because how the _fuck_ does he explain this, all this, to someone who doesn't _know,_ who doesn't—

"Breathe," Hermann says, sharply, and his hand goes up to rub circles on Newt's back and this is. This is almost too much, and Newt realises he's dripping onto Hermann's carpet.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I just—it's been—" his words catch in his throat again, so all he says is, "I'm sorry."

"I didn't expect you," Hermann says.

"I know. I'm sorry," Newt says, again. "I—for—everything. Leaving. I want to—to make it right—"

"Not now," Hermann says; firmly. "You're shivering against me, and you look like you haven't eaten or slept in days. As soon as that's taken care of, we'll talk."

Newt swallows; breathes a deep breath. "Okay," he says, quietly. "I—thank you. Thank you, Hermann."

They stand for a few more minutes; and it's the nicest thing Newt has felt in a long time, and then Hermann _tsk_ s and says, "Come with me, I'll draw you a warm bath," and everything's still kind of awful and they're going to need to talk about this, sooner rather than later, but right now, Hermann's holding his hand gently, as if afraid he'll run, but he keeps murmuring _I love you_ and things are fucked up but.

But they're kind of okay. They _will_ be okay. Not now, but. They will be.

* * *

The water is hot; or at least it feels like it, when Newt sticks his hand in it. "You're soaked to the bone," Hermann murmurs, quietly, and Newt's pretty sure he _didn't_ say that out loud, but he's so _fucking tired_ and his head is pounding and his chest is heavy when he breathes.

Hermann tugs at his shirt; the wet cloth making a noise a bit like laminated paper as it peels away from his skin. "You're soaked," he says, again. "And exhausted. Let me help you, Newton."

His hand hovers, there, for a moment, as Newt remains silent; and then, he says, slowly, "Okay," and Hermann gently, _gently_ unbuttons the shirt and helps him out of it and into the tub.

The water's hot, and he shivers violently and lets out a wet cough, and Hermann's lips turn down. "You're sick," he says, and Newt laughs, painfully; because it's _true_ , if you look at it that way. He's sick. He's _been_ sick. God, he's sick and he's so fucking tired.

"Yeah," he says, weakly, and his eyes slip shut. He doesn't have the energy to sit up properly, so he lets himself slide down so his knees and his head are the only bits sticking up.

There's the sound of retreating footsteps, and Newt sighs. That's fine. He doesn't _really_ expect… _anything_ , given he just showed up to Hermann's place unannounced after three years of not talking at all. The bath is nice, though.

Glass clinks as it hits a hard surface. "I found orange juice," Hermann says, awkwardly. "I know you don't like it, but you look like you need… _something_. Er."

Newt opens his eyes; finds Hermann sitting on the closed toilet lid, lanky limbs doing their best to fit in the small space of the bathroom, and there's a half-glass of orange juice on the wide rim of the bathtub. Hermann's hands are clasped in his lap, and he's worrying his lip. "Thanks," Newt says, finally, when he finds his voice again, and takes it.

Hermann watches him for a moment, and then realises Newt _knows_ he's watching him, and flicks his gaze quickly to stare at the wall, ears going slightly red. "Thanks," Newt says, again. "For, um. The juice." And then he sets the glass on the floor, water dripping and he feels bad, a bit, but Hermann doesn't look like he really _cares_.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he says, and picks up a bottle of shampoo and uncaps it, about to squeeze it, and then freezes, realising what he's about to do. "Er—I mean—"

Newt shakes his head. "No, it's…it's fine," he says, and his shoulders go slack.

The other leans over, tipping Newt's head gently back to wet his hair, and then begins rubbing the shampoo through his hair. "I haven't seen you in a while," he says, and the words aren't accusatory.

Newt swallows. "I quit Shao Industries," he says.

"Ah," Hermann says, and Newt gets the impression that he's not _too_ surprised by it, and that, at least, is kind of reassuring.

 _Got un-possessed for the first time in three years, too_ , Newt doesn't add, because he doesn't think Hermann deserves to have it dropped on him like that, now. Instead, he says, "Thanks for letting me in. I…wasn't sure you'd be home." _Or open the door_ , he doesn't add, _if you can feel me like I can feel you_.

"I'm glad I did," Hermann says, firmly. "I'm going to go—" Newt's eyes widen, and he tenses, and Hermann must catch sight of it, because he pitches his tone softer, continues, "to go make you something more substantial to eat, and get you a towel and a change of clothes, alright? I'll…I'll just be in the other room. Is that alright?"

"I—y—yeah," Newt says, after a moment. "Thanks."

The water's cooled—or he's gotten warmer—by the time Hermann gets back, a towel and a change of clothes. He helps Newt clamber out of the tub and wraps him in the towel, large and fluffy, that smells like clean detergent, and the clothes smell like the same cool cucumber of Hermann's body-wash.

Tears sting at his eyes, and he sniffles, pressure pressing behind his eyes. This is too—too—he scrubs at his eyes quickly. "Uh, you said something about food?" he asks, and his voice is cracking, but Hermann lets it slide.

He nods. "Come lay down—I can put it on a tray. You ought to rest."

"'kay," Newt says, and then, suddenly, Hermann's arms are around him and he'd ask _why_ , but, god, he _understands_ , can feel how much Hermann misses him.

Hermann leads him to the bedroom; tucks him under the warm, clean covers and leaves for a few moments, returning with a tray. There's a bowl of rice and one of soup and some yoghurt and bread, and he sets it on Newt's lap and then, without prompting, as if he can hear Newt's thoughts—maybe he can?—, he gets in bed with Newt, pressing, warm, against him.

"Thank you," Newt says, quietly, and takes one of Hermann's hands in his.

They're going to have to talk about everything soon, he knows, but right now, he's sick, and Hermann's taking care of him, and he's just going to try and live in the moment.

Hermann smiles and squeezes his hand, thumb rubbing against the skin. "Of course," he says, simply.


	139. 139

**our hearts may have been cracked and broken but duck-tape'll hold just fine**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary: **""I tried to kill everyone," Newt says, casually, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet; full of nervous energy.

The cashier blinks at him; purses her lips. "Uh, sir…?" she says, "I asked if have a Walmart membership card?"

Newt opens his mouth; realises he's been monologuing _silently_ —probably for the better, honestly—, and says, "Um. No, uh. I don't. Thanks, though, uh…" he checks her name-tag—"Anne."

The woman gives him a flat grimace. "That'll be ten-fifty-four," she intones, and after Newt pulls out a few cash bills, hands him his change with an equally flat, "have a good day, sir.""

* * *

"I tried to kill everyone," Newt says, casually, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet; full of nervous energy.

The cashier blinks at him; purses her lips. "Uh, sir…?" she says, "I asked if have a Walmart membership card?"

Newt opens his mouth; realises he's been monologuing _silently_ —probably for the better, honestly—, and says, "Um. No, uh. I don't. Thanks, though, uh…" he checks her name-tag—"Anne."

The woman gives him a flat grimace. "That'll be ten-fifty-four," she intones, and after Newt pulls out a few cash bills, hands him his change with an equally flat, "have a good day, sir."

"You too!" Newt chirps back, and takes the bag, fighting the urge to clutch it to his chest and look around furtively. He's not a—a—a _criminal._ Well; not as of a few weeks ago, anyway, but he's so used to…having to _hide_ things. Ten years' habits are hard to break.

He takes a long, deep breath, and opens his eyes, staring at the white-painted walls, and the fucking _stupid_ Walmart sign—it's 20-fucking-36, why the _hell_ does Walmart still exist? And why haven't they changed their logo to something less _annoying?_ —, and loosens his grip on the handles of the plastic bag.

There. Now; he just has to…walk. Out. Into the parking-lot. Where there may be other people.

That…may be a little bit of a problem.

Or; rather; a lot of a problem, if his heart pounding in his ears is _anything_ to go by. Just. Just a _little._

He sucks in another breath. Right; he can deal with this. Self-soothing. De-escalation. Distraction? Maybe not that one. His brain _might_ just implode if it gets one more bit of stimulus too much, frankly, honestly, really, and maybe he should try and slow his train of thought a bit. It sounds. Frantic.

The bathroom, thankfully, is just a bit to his right and a few steps ahead, so he makes it in there just fine; tries to ignore the shitty flickering lights as he splashes water on his face and breathes, _breathes,_ one-two-three-four ( _onetwothreefour_ ). The water on his face. The cold of the porcelain against his skin where he rests his hands, squeezing tightly; imagines roots reaching out of his feet into the ground, grounding (hah) him.

The shaking eases up a bit. That's. That's good.

When he looks up at the reflection in the mirror, the image is blurred; he realises he hadn't taken off his glasses before he splashed water onto his face. Ah. Well. That would explain…some things, huh?

He sets the bag down, finally—should have done that _first,_ now come to think of it, but hindsight is 20/20, right?—, and pulls off his glasses with a sigh; scrubs them dry with the hem of his shirt and slips them back on.

There; all good.

He flips his wrist, instinctively, to check his watch and then remembers he doesn't have a watch anymore; sighs. Walmart should have a clock around here…somewhere.

They do.

It's one in the morning.

When did he leave?

It feels like it's only been maybe fifteen minutes since he left, but time is a _tricky_ fucker. It's probably been like an hour or—two, or three, and he hopes it hasn't been, but either way, Hermann's. Probably worried.

He should check in.

He left his phone at home.

Thank fuck Walmart sells burner-phones, huh?

It takes him a few tries, sitting out in the parking-lot, in the car, shivering in the dark, to dial Hermann's number. It's the fucking keypad—he's used to smart-phones, and, unlike Hermann, his fingers are _not_ slender, and _49 38821 78 2989_ is _hard_ to type out on a phone that looks suspiciously like his first Nokia.

He does manage it, though, finally; the device pressed against his ear as he listens to the ringing go on, and on, and _on_ —

Hermann's voice crackles, staticky, over the line. "Hello?"

Newt breathes a sigh of relief. "Hey," he says, and hopes his voice is steadier than he thinks it is. On the other end, Hermann gives a sharp inhale, and Newt plows on. "Hey. Uh, just—checking in to tell you I'm alright. Sorry I—didn't text you. I left my phone at…at home."

"I— _saw,_ " Hermann says, strangled. "It—I was _worried._ "

He still _is,_ if his voice is anything to go by, and Newt reminds himself that he needs to _not_ start catastrophising. "Sorry," he murmurs, instead. "I—yeah. Like I said, I was just checking in. Do you need anything else before I come back? I've got—" He checks the bag. "—a tomato, a thing of yogurt, and some flour. Oh, and mushrooms."

"No, that's…that's all," Hermann says. "I—thank you, Newton."

"Yeah," Newt says.

"Drive safe," Hermann says, and then the line clicks dead.

Newt sighs; squares his shoulders. Sets the bag back in the passenger seat.

The drive back's uneventful. At this time of night, there aren't many people out, so the most he sees is a racoon that scurries away before he gets within fifty yards of it, which he only notices because its eyes flash like two little glowing balls in the headbeams before it darts away.

The lights are on when he pulls into the driveway, and he can see Hermann's silhouette in the window.

He doesn't even knock on the door before it opens, and Hermann's face is staring back at his own, and his brows are drawn together and his eyes are red and Newt's first thought is _oh, he's been_ crying, and then, _fuck, he's been crying because of_ me.

"Newton," Hermann says, and his voice—cracking and thick—only confirms it.

"Hermann," Newt says, measuredly, and edges inside, setting the bag down on the counter.

There's silence, and then Newt says, "I'm, um, sorry about—"

"Sometimes I wish you were dead," Hermann bursts out, and that silences Newt quickly enough, and he turns to find Hermann scrubbing furiously at his face, and he looks— _terrified._ "Sometimes," he says, again, and Newt can see him swallow. He stops and starts again. "I wish you were dead. But then I would hate myself for waiting by your grave instead of the phone. God, Newton, I—"

His voice breaks. "I woke up, and you were gone, and you'd left your phone, and I was so—so _worried,_ I—"

He stops again, taking in a shaking breath.

"Oh," Newt says, and the word crumples a little on itself, because, _shit,_ he hadn't thought about that. "Hermann, I—I'm sorry. I just—I woke up, and I needed to. To _go,_ just—out, and I—I thought I'd do you a favour and stop by Walmart and grab the stuff on your list, but I didn't—"

"Didn't _think?_ " Hermann snaps, and Newt falls silent. "Newton," he says, and sighs. "I—I'm sorry for snapping. I was just—God. I was so. So _worried._ Please don't…don't do that again."

"I can't— _stay,_ " Newt manages. "Not at—not when I'm feeling like. Like _that,_ Hermann, I—"

Hermann shakes his head. "No, not what—not what I meant, I mean…" he pauses; tugs at the hem of his pyjama-shirt. "Just—leave a _note,_ maybe, darling?"

"Oh," Newt says, and this time, it's _relief._ "Oh. I. Okay," he says.

"Thank you," Hermann murmurs, and then crosses the space in front of them; pulls him into a hug. "Thank you," he says, again, "for. For getting those things. I'm sorry about what I said. I don't want you dead, alright, Newton?"

Newt nods, not quite trusting himself to speak, right now, but he relaxes against Hermann.

The other seems to understand, and keeps holding him, gently; presses a soft kiss to his temple. "Let's get to bed," he says, "it's late. You must be exhausted."

"Yeah," Newt manages, finally. "I—yeah. I am."

He lets Hermann lead him back to the warm, comforting darkness of the bedroom, flicking out the lights behind them.


	140. 140

**half-forgotten memories**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt and Hermann have a bit of a heart to heart about one of Newt's songs from his time with the Black Velvet Rabbits"

* * *

They are falling.

The air around screams a high E-flat, and Newt's mind is full of the black and white of a piano, set in the middle of their living-room—except, no, not _their,_ because Newt grew up in a two-bed apartment in Berlin, its wallpaper cracked and peeling and the only piano he ever got close to was an electric keyboard, its keys plastic and, in places, sticky, not the white of polished ivory.

He remembers playing it with sure hands, a deftness that he knows isn't his; he's always been better with stringed instruments, but _he_ has played the piano.

No.

Nope, _not_ Newt who played the piano. That was Hermann. Not him.

Record scratch. Rewind. The Drift bursts in blue and they are swept away.

Hermann's memories unspool beneath his fingertips, cocoon him in vibrant strands of colourless sensory input. Garmisch-Partenkirchen; the chirp of birds he can't see, the hot brush of the sun against his skin. The cobblestones of Oxford. The scent of ink.

The kaiju hivemind floods their minds.

And then, just like that, they're out; Newt's knees are hitting the pavement with a painful crack and he feels a bit like the force of it has dislodged every bone in his body.

"Ow," he moans, and the sound comes out a bit nasal. His face throbs. Red specks grow up from the ground—except, no, actually, he's just _bleeding_ again.

"You're bleeding," Hermann says, a fraction of a second later, and Newt doesn't snap out the retort he's thinking of because Hermann's voice is strained and Newt's pretty sure he's more than a _little_ freaked out and trying to hold on to—to _anything_ he can.

So instead, he just says, "Nng," tips his head forward, breathing as evenly as he can; digs out a (Hermann's) handkerchief from his pocket, thrusting it in what he's pretty sure is the physicist's direction on a hunch.

A moment later, Hermann grabs it from him and goes stumbling to heave up the meagre lunch he ate fourteen hours ago.

Newt's nose finally stops bleeding, which is probably a good sign, and he gives an experimental tilt of his head to confirm; when nothing starts bleeding again, he makes his way over to Hermann. "Hey bud," he says, "how are you."

"To use your insipid colloquialisms," Hermann says, between teeth Newt's can't see, but rather can feel, are grit, "I am _straight-up not having a good time,_ Newton, _thank you for asking._ "

"Stop being me," Newt snaps, "I need you to be you, Herms, I can't be you."

"I'm _not_ being you," Hermann says, starts an eye-roll, and stops before he even gets a quarter of the way with a hiss of pain. His eye's ringed red—no _wonder_ that wasn't fun for him. "I am _mocking_ you, Newton."

Newt nods. The lines are scripted, rehearsed, they _both_ know this, but, y'know, he's going to forgive Hermann for clinging to their… _rivalry_ right now. He _is_ pretty stressed. "You were right, by the way," he says; non-sequitur, but Hermann knows what he means.

"I often…often _am,_ " he says, the last bit hissed, stressed, and he pitches forward suddenly. Newt darts, as quickly as he can, given he's not doing to stellar with motor control right now, forward to stabilise him.

"Which one of us wins arguments seven out of eight times?" Newt challenges.

" _I_ do, Newton," Hermann says.

Newt scowls at him, and then at the ground. He is, unfortunately, _right._ "Look, just _walk,_ " he says, instead. "We gotta get to that helicopter, dude, gotta get back to LOCCENT and tell them what we know. Help save the world."

"We'll be rockstars," Hermann says, deadpan, and grips Newt a bit more tightly when he almost stumbles and falls over.

"Myeah," Newt hums. "Rockstars. C'mon, bud, one foot in front of the other."

Hermann huffs at him, but he doesn't protest.

* * *

It takes a bit, but Newt manages to get the both of them out of the medbay and to somewhere more comfortable. Namely, _bed._

 _Hermann's_ bed, in fact, and Newt lets his head fall onto the pristine white pillow and groans, "Dude, I straight-up would _die_ to sleep with these every night."

"No need for that," Hermann says, from above him, actually taking the time to get changed instead of throwing himself face-first, clothed in the thin medical gown, onto the bed. "My bed's always open to you."

Normally, Newt would crack some mild to moderately inappropriate joke, but now, all he does is groan again and let his eyes fall shut. Sleep. He wants to _sleep,_ blessed, blessed darkness, oh god, that sounds _so_ good right now—

And it's not going to happen. Because Hermann's laid down next to him, and he's _humming._

Specifically, he's humming _I Still Don't Miss You,_ which is to say he's humming _Black Velvet Rabbits_ and he's humming the song Newt wrote that is, ostensibly, about a one-night stand, but is _actually_ more about the four-year-long intellectual fling he lowkey had with Hermann until _that_ ended awfully and he spent a week in alternates crying and drinking and _not_ sleeping and trying to put his words to paper and wound up with one of the last songs he'd ever preform with the Rabbits, and not even a proper performance, really, given that it was about three people besides them and he never officially got it put in their discography.

It is, quite frankly, an awful, vent-fuelled song, and really does _not_ paint Hermann in a great light, which, in retrospect, was _not_ really fair of him.

"Uh, Hermann?" he attempts, a little cautiously, "you realise you're humming a song you've never heard, right?"

"Er—what?" Hermann says, stopping his humming, _finally._

"There's no recordings of it anywhere," Newt says, slowly.

"No, Newton, but you _insist_ on _singing_ every one of your awful songs in my vicinity," Hermann says, "something was bound to get stuck at some point."

"…ah," Newt says, very eloquently. Offers a weak smile.

" _However,_ " Hermann continues, "I _would_ appreciate a bit of clarification, since, as of three hours ago, I've been made aware that _I_ was the subject of the song in question."

" _Ah,_ " Newt says, again, and tries to will the ground to suddenly open up beneath him. This is. This is horrifically embarrassing. "Well, to be fair," he says, "I _wasn't_ thinking straight."

Hermann _hmmphs_ quietly, and lets Newt continue. "I mean, like—okay, so, um. Picture this. Newt Geiszler, age twenty-three, sitting in—actually, no," he shakes his head; stops, when he realises how odd the motion is. "Um. You know the lead-up. Anyway. Okay, now imagine I'm falling in love with you. Can you picture it? Like, the, um—"

"I do not need a lesson on visualisation, Newton," Hermann says, voice dry as the fucking Sahara.

"Oh, shut up," Newt snaps. "Now picture that backwards." There's a moment of silence, and then Newt adds, "I mean, okay, like, to be fair, I wasn't probably _actually_ in love with you, because, um, what does that even _mean?_ but I _thought_ I was, and—" he's kind of running out of air, apparently, but his lungs only decide to inform him of it _now_ and so he trails off with an undignified wheeze.

" _Newton,_ " Hermann says, sharply, for someone who's face Newt knows for a fact is half-smushed into his own pillow.

Right. Breathe. Inhale oxygen, exhale CO2. That's a thing he can do. Totally.

"Anyway. My point is. I'm sorry for slightly freaking out about you humming a kind of shitty vent-song I wrote about you," Newt says, and winces at how pathetic it sounds.

"Apology accepted," Hermann says, far more gracious than he really _ought_ to be about this. "If it assuages your guilt at all, you have, in the past five years, shown that you aren't the man I met in 2017."

"God, I hope not," Newt says. "2017 me was a _dick._ "

"Mm, agreed," Hermann murmurs. "Now I'm sure there's a larger conversation to be had here, but _please,_ let's have it in the morning, when both of us are better-rested."

"…probably a good idea," Newt concedes. "Also, for the record, I'm _not_ in love with you now, either, but I kind of like-like you."

"I _often_ have good ideas," Hermann says, and then adds, in a _really_ bad impression of Newt, " _like-like,_ " but his voice is sleep-laden and, really, _annoyingly_ adorable.

"Shut up, I hate you," Newt grumbles. "I can't believe I ever thought I was in love with you."

"Mm," Hermann says, because he just _has_ to get the last word in, " _sleep._ Now, please."


	141. 141

**things are perfect, i swear**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Hermann's the one who shows Newt to his new flat."

* * *

He doesn't see; doesn't, see, _look,_ because, perhaps, he doesn't _want_ to.

It's just—Newton looks so _happy._ Seems so happy. Hermann doesn't want to push too hard—Newton _deserves_ this; deserves to be happy. It's the _least_ he deserves, truly, for his years of service to humanity—contentment; peace.

Alice certainly seems to bring that to him. _Seemed._

In retrospect, there were signs; Hermann just ignored what he didn't want to see.

So now, ten years later, Newton Geiszler is currently trying to kill all of humanity—well; correction; the _Precursors_ are using a possessed Newton to try and restart their colonisation efforts; the red of the opened Breaches casting a rusty, blood-red light onto the biologist's skin and shining into Hermann's eyes painfully.

The fact that _this_ is what he considers to the _painful_ thing when Newton's hands are literally wrapped around his throat says something about him. More accurately, it says, in the voice of the copy of Newton Geiszler from 2025 that has resided in his head for the past decade, _Dude,_ priorities?

"N—newton," he finally chokes, the name barely making it past his lips, and his fingers scrabble against the other's; trying, desperately, to get _through_ to him.

He realises, suddenly, with it—his vision blackening with the loss of oxygen around the edges—, that he has never said his _name,_ not in true. Not once in the twenty-two years they've known each other. Never once.

His throat works, and he rasps, " _Newt,_ " barely above a whisper; an offering; an apology. _If nothing else, know this. If nothing else, remember_ this.

A beat, and his vision is mostly dark, but he sees, at its epicentre, Newton's stricken expression. "Hermann, th—they're in my _head,_ " he says, half-frantic and terrified, and his voice is small, and high, and _human._

Shao's gun goes off and he drops Hermann to the floor.

* * *

And so; here they are.

"If I ever have to get another IV, it'll be too soon," Newton grumbles, rubbing the crook of his arm, the spot where the IV was inserted covered with a white bandage. It's the third one they've put on—Newton keeps absent-mindedly picking them off, and then beginning to apologise to Hermann, who just sighs and pulls another one out of his pockets.

Hermann hums. "Quite," he agrees, because _he_ may not have been the one who went through it, but he imagines it's rather unpleasant. His fingers tighten on the steering-wheel at the memory of a pale, barely-breathing Newton laying prone on a medical cot, hooked up to an IV.

Newton's speaking still, he thinks, but nothing that makes sense; exhaustion coating the words, but he doesn't stop, and Hermann realises, with a jolt, that, perhaps, this is the first time in a decade that he has gotten to say exactly what he wants to.

No wonder he doesn't want to stop; wants to savour this as long as he can.

"Oh, Newt," he murmurs, reaching out with one hand to hold the other's. "It's alright. This isn't a dream. You can go to sleep."

The words seem to comfort him, because his fevered muttering quiets and then trails off, his head listing slightly, chest rising shallowly with sleep, and warmth blooms beneath Hermann's skin at the sight of it.

He wishes he knew how to apologise; to tell Newton that this is, in parts, his fault. _At first I was angry you had fallen in love with someone else but you seem so happy now,_ he remembers thinking; years ago, when the memory of Newton in his mind was fresh still, feeling hurt at his leaving but reminding himself that Newton can do whatever he pleases. Now it's joined by another: _I didn't even know you were sad._

"I should have," he murmurs, barely more than a whisper. "I knew you best—I should have known."

He sighs; draws his hand away, places it back on the steering wheel. Regret is useless, now—it'll change nothing. The best he can do is live in the present and try and make up for the past.

Now, that means getting Newton back to the flat the PPDC has, reluctantly, arranged for him to stay in.

It's not bad; a bit small, perhaps, and sterile, but Hermann is sure the other will fix that soon—and if he doesn't, _cannot_ do it himself, Hermann will be there for him; will unpack the boxes of posters and tack them to the walls and help him put the bright yellow and purple polka-dot sheets on his bed.

He brings the car to a stop, and Newton stirs. "We there already?"

"Yes," Hermann says, "er—here; the, ah, key—" he pulls it out of his pocket and offers it to the other.

Newton stares at it, and then, at length, says, "Thanks," and takes it.

His possessions, in brown boxes, have already been brought in by movers, so they simply open and begin to unpack them. Partway through, Newton stops. "I think I'm going to get a septum piercing," he says, without preamble, holding a black and orange shirt in one hand and a ceramic shoe in the other.

Hermann raises a brow at him. "Can I ask _why?_ " he says, "not that I'm saying you _shouldn't,_ mind. Erm—if you feel like you want to tell me, that is."

"Nah, 's fine," Newton says, and there's the faintest traces of a smile that Hermann hasn't seen in years playing at his lips. "Uh—honestly, I think I…need it, sort of. To, um, prove that…" he trails off.

Hermann swallows. "That you have control," he finishes, quietly.

Newton nods. "Yeah," he says, with a high burst of laughter ripping from his lungs before he cuts it off. "I mean, I know it's silly, but—"

"It's not," Hermann says. "It's—it's _not,_ Newton. _Newt._ I…I understand."

"…oh," Newton says; and then, "you called me Newt."

Hermann rolls his eyes. " _That's_ what you choose to focus on?" he says, but it's fond, and now Newton _is_ smiling in true; the action looking half-forgotten, but it's genuine.

"Hey," Newton says, and reaches out to take his hand. "Thanks."

For what, Hermann doesn't know; understanding? Being here with him? Both? Maybe it doesn't matter, in the end, really; maybe neither of them really know. Perhaps all that matters is the weight of Newton's hand in his as they stand here, smiling at each other tentatively.


	142. 142

**aftermath**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "Newt needs glasses again."

* * *

They don't talk about it, in the aftermath.

Hermann knows there's things to be said—things he has to say, especially, to apologise for; after all, he was Newton's _Drift partner;_ knew him for over a _decade;_ should have realised something was wrong—but Newton is, he knows, probably in no condition for it.

The selfish part of him wants to pretend like nothing happened—to just go back to the way it was, but that isn't good for Newton, because even if Hermann isn't necessarily the reason Newton _left,_ he's certainly a reason Newt got to the place he did.

What was it the Precursors had said—about Newton being seen as weak and stupid? Because they are wholly wrong, of _course_ they are, but Hermann knows that that's not just something they drew out of thin air; Newton's always struggled with his self-worth, and God knows Hermann's never been one to exactly _reassure_ him.

So, in the aftermath, Hermann doesn't press the matter.

"They're going to let me back to work," Newton tells him, a few months after he's cleared of all Precursor influence. "Uh—figured I'd be more help out there than in here, I guess." He laughs, sharp, and his hands, in Hermann's memory, never-still, lay atop the thin, blue sheets of the medical-bay, unmoving.

Hermann musters up a half-smile. "I'm— _glad,_ " he says. "I know how you hate sitting around and doing nothing. _Hated,_ " he corrects himself, because he doesn't know Newton; not really, anymore, and it's not fair to assume.

Newton mirrors the half-smile. "Old habits die hard," he says, and there's a trace of almost-humour there, a brief flash of it in his eyes, but it fades within a blink, the walls coming back up, and he squares his shoulders, as if expecting something.

Hermann swallows; doesn't know _what_ it is that Newton expects. "I'll, ah, get out of your hair, then," he says, softly, not meeting the other's gaze. "I'm sure you have things to do."

"Yeah," Newton says, and it sounds more like an echo than a proper answer. He doesn't say goodbye as Hermann rises, closing the door quietly behind him.

It takes a few days for Newton to get settled into his new lab; Hermann tries bites back his disappointment at the fact that they're in separate labs, and scolds himself for having the _gall_ to be disappointed; it's perfectly understandable for Newton to want his own space. Hermann may always have thought their rivalry was a friendly one, always thought Newton felt the same, but now…now he's not so sure. And he _understands_ that, really, he does. He just—he doesn't _like_ it, and that, he tells himself firmly, is his own issue and _not_ Newton's in the slightest.

He does stop by, though; after two weeks, the separation becomes almost unbearable, leaves him restless and unfocused, which isn't good for his work.

He finds Newton standing over a holographic display of the Megakaiju, frowning and squinting, his face less than a foot away from the display.

"Newton," he says, and then, after a moment, remembers himself, and says, "er—Doctor Geiszler. Aren't you standing a little close?"

"Hmm?" Newton says, uncurling and craning his neck to squint at Hermann. "Oh—uh, hey Hermann. Sorry, what did you say?"

"Aren't you standing a bit close?" Hermann repeats, "surely that can't be good for your eyes."

Newton shrugs. "Can't see it properly if I don't," he says, nonchalantly, and drags a hand through his hair in a harried motion; sending tufts of it sticking up in different directions. He needs a haircut, Hermann thinks to himself absentmindedly.

"Did your prescription change?" he muses aloud, "perhaps that's why."

Newton blinks at him. "Per…scription?" he asks, like it's a foreign word.

"Well, I assumed you'd switched from glasses to contacts," Hermann says with a frown, "since I haven't…seen you wear them…"

He stops; trailing off. He _hasn't_ seen Newton wear his glasses since…since he _left,_ actually; interviews when he was with Shao either had him without them or wearing those horrid red-lensed sunglasses, but surely, the Precursors would have worn them, right?

"Hermann," Newton says, slowly, "they got me LASIK _years_ ago. I don't _need_ glasses."

There's something there—hurt, longing, resignation all, and damn it, _damn_ it, Hermann wishes he could beat those bastards _bloody,_ just for a moment, because how _dare_ they—, and Hermann swallows. "Newton," he says, "you _do._ "

"I—but—" Newton gapes at him. "That's _ridiculous,_ " he manages to choke out, and his eyes are tearing up, and, God, _God._ "They got me LASIK," Newton repeats, like a broken record, "Hermann, I—I don't _need glasses._ "

His tone is verging on hysteria, now, almost, and he stumbles back a few steps before catching himself, and Hermann's heart aches.

"Well," he says, and then frowns. Pauses. Starts again. Falters for words. Then, in the absence of anything to say, he crosses the room and wraps Newton in a hug that's probably tighter than is strictly comfortable.

Newton leans against him, seemingly in shock, and after a moment, he begins to shake, fingers gripping the fabric of Hermann's shirt tightly. "Well," Hermann says, again, softly, "your eyes could have been overcorrected, or simply have regressed over the years."

"God," Newton murmurs, the sound half-muffled into his shirt, "I can't fucking believe it. I—I…" he trails off.

"It's alright, Newton," Hermann murmurs. "I…I don't understand exactly, but I can—I can _guess_ at what you're feeling, and it's perfectly alright."

"Thank you," Newton says, "for—for calling me…Newton, again, and for being here for me."

 _Oh,_ Hermann thinks, and draws his arms tightly around the other, "Of course. Would…if you'd like, I can look into getting you an appointment with an optometrist," he offers. "And I, ah—well, it's going to sound ridiculous, but you left your spare pair when you left, and I kept them, so if you'd like, you can just get the lenses swapped out for the new prescription."

"Yeah, I'd—I'd like that," Newton says, something Hermann doesn't quite understand in his voice, and then he asks, tentatively, "can we—can I move into your lab? Um, we can put a line down the middle if you want—"

" _Of course,_ " Hermann says, "I'd—that'd be _wonderful,_ Newton. And…I don't think we need anymore barriers between us. And I doubt anyone would object to it—but if they do, I'll give them a piece of my mind."

"…alright," Newton says, softly, "I—yeah. I'd like that. Thank you, Hermann."


	143. 143

**victorious**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** "The interviewer says something—a joke, Hermann thinks, though he's not particularly paying attention—, and Newton laughs, and Hermann's looking at him, and then Hermann's _looking_ at _him,_ anew.

He is beautiful and ridiculous and _alive,_ seated on the sofa beside Hermann on an Earth that didn't end; and Hermann never planned for this; never planned for _this;_ doesn't know what to _do_ with himself."

* * *

They're sitting on a set; some big-name news channel or other that Hermann can't remember the name of; it's not like he's _watched_ the news in the last five years—been a bit _busy_ helping to save the world for _that._

The lights are shining, hot, above them; Newton, by his side, shifts; presses a comforting palm to his leg.

"We're live in two minutes, gentleman," says the interviewer, not meeting either of their gazes; she's checking something on a clipboard—interview questions, probably. She hasn't given her name—or maybe she has, and Hermann just can't remember it. Either one is just as likely as the other.

"You finally get to be the rockstar you always wanted," Hermann murmurs to Newton, quietly.

Newton laughs. "Not exactly how I pictured it," he returns, "but hey, saving the world isn't too bad, in my book."

Hermann opens his mouth to add something—an admonishment, maybe, but before he can, Newton says, "Ah, wait, your collar's crooked—" and leans forward to fix it; clever fingers deftly readjusting it and smoothing it down. "There," he says.

After a moment of barely breathing, Hermann croaks, "Thank you."

That's all the time they have, because then the interviewer is setting her clipboard aside and the cameras are rolling and she's asking Newton something about his work in the War and Hermann's tasting blood and fear when she says _kaiju._

"Yeah, well," Newton shrugs, "I mean, it wasn't _easy,_ I'll admit—our funding was being cut all the time, but we made do."

"You _are_ a genius, after all," Hermann points out, instinctively, and then remembers they're being filmed and flushes. Newton turns his head to give Hermann a surprised, but pleased look.

"Doctor Gottlieb," says the interviewer, "how was _your_ experience working for the PPDC?"

 _Terrible,_ Hermann very nearly says, and then remembers that this interviewing business is to boost the public's opinion of the PPDC, and instead says, "Newton is a _horrible_ lab partner. I don't know _how_ many times I had to file complaints about him."

"Three-hundred-and-twenty-two," Newton says, matter-of-factly, to her. Hermann glances at him, wide-eyed. "What? I got emails from the HR department every time you submitted one!"

"I can't believe you can remember _that_ but not that kaiju blood reacts adversely with caffeine," Hermann mutters.

The rest of the interview goes fine; they give witty one-liners—Newton—and responses that are more or less scripted—Hermann. By the time it's over, he feels stifled in the hot air of the room; the clothes he's been poked and prodded into are stiff, and his face feels caked with the makeup they put on him pre-filming.

The interviewer says something—a joke, Hermann thinks, though he's not particularly paying attention—, and Newton laughs, and Hermann's looking at him, and then Hermann's _looking_ at _him,_ anew.

He is beautiful and ridiculous and _alive,_ seated on the sofa beside Hermann on an Earth that didn't end; and Hermann never planned for this; never planned for _this;_ doesn't know what to _do_ with himself.

"Herms?" Newton asks, catching his gaze, "do I have something on my face?"

"…n—no," Hermann croaks, eventually; mouth suddenly dry.

"Hmm," Newton hums, and then rises. "Well, it's time for us to go, so I hope you're not lying—otherwise that entire interview is going to have me with something on my face, and if it does, I am _not_ going to be happy."

"I wouldn't do _that,_ " Hermann protests, rising with him, and they both bid the interviewer and cameramen a good day and go into the back room, and then Hermann ducks into the restrooms to splash water on his face because he's feeling hot, still.

"Ready to go?" Newton asks, leaning against the wall, filing his nails as he waits for Hermann to be done, and Hermann grunts; towels his face with paper towels and then groans when that smears the makeup.

Newton laughs at him. "Here," he says, "let me help you get that all off. I'm pretty good at it—used to have to do this shit all the time when I was with the Rabbits." He takes a new paper-towel and wets it lightly, wiping, gently, at Hermann's face; repeats the process, tongue sticking out between his teeth with concentration.

Hermann's breath hitches; he stills, one hand gripping his cane, the other gripping at empty air. Newton's hands are warm as they brush his skin, and he's not sure what to _do._

"There," Newton says, with satisfaction, and steps back, "all good."

Hermann breathes; checks his reflection in the mirror, relieved to find that Newton's managed to get it all after all. "Thank you," he mutters.

"No problem," Newton replies; and then, after a moment, "really, though, did I have something on my face on set?"

Hermann shakes his head sharply. "No," he says, "I wasn't lying."

"Never said that," Newton says, easily. "So if there wasn't anything on my face, what were you looking at?"

The question brings him to a halt; he wasn't expecting this conversation; or, at least, not yet. They _did_ Drift, after all; it was probably inevitable. Truth is probably the best policy, then. "You," Hermann says, honestly.

The other stops. "… _what?_ " he breathes.

"What, do you want me to say it _again?_ " Hermann snaps, but it's without heat, and Newton shakes his head.

"No, I just— _surprised,_ " he says. "Why would you—?"

"Newton," he says, softly, "why would I look at _you?_ We _Drifted,_ Newton. You're a genius—put it together."

Newton purses his lips; stares at him, hard; tears at the brown of the paper towel in his hand, streaking some of the makeup on it onto his fingers. "You…hmm," he says, after a moment, and then: "Oh."

Hermann has to laugh at that; just slightly. " _'Oh'_?" he asks, amused, "that's your reaction?"

"Well how would _you_ react to learning your feelings are reciprocated?" Newton snaps, "cut me some slack here, man."

"Reciprocated," Hermann repeats. "Good to know."

"Shut up and kiss me," Newton grumbles, and Hermann laughs again, and acquiesces, palm cupping Newton's cheek as he presses his lips to the other's.


	144. 144

**see me/see me**

 **Rating: T  
Pairing: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb  
Summary:** ""He was supposed to visit, you know," he says; knowing that the seemingly random change in topic won't make sense to the other man. "Today, actually—'bout half an hour ago, but I could be wrong, given that my internal clock _sucks_. I mean," he's rambling, now, and he knows it, but he can't stop; not now. "I wasn't— _expecting_ him to, honestly, but it would have been… _nice_.""

* * *

It happens slowly; the change; and yet, sometimes, it feels like he blinked and suddenly, everything had changed. Both are correct, he supposes; in a way, it's been slow; building up to this for years, from the moment that the tattoo-gun touched his skin and spilt Trespasser onto it; and in a way, fast, too; waking up the morning after the Drift, after the War, and realising he wasn't in control; realising the War might have been over but the war had just begun.

He fights it; oh, he does. Let it never be said that Newton Geiszler was the sort of man to step aside and just let things happen—after all, he was one of the first to join up with the PPDC, in the aftermath of Oblivion Bay.

So yes; he does.

In a way.

At _first._

And then he finds himself standing with a knife at the side of the bed and Hermann's unsuspecting, peaceful, sleeping face only a few inches away from the blade, and—

Well.

He gets the message loud and clear, needless to say. They'll take Hermann from him one way or another, if he keeps at this; keeps fighting them. And—maybe he should; he doesn't know _what_ they want, exactly, but he can guess at it, from past knowledge; that it won't be anything good for humanity as a whole.

But Newt—Newt could never do that. He's not fucking— _Spock,_ never has been, never will be; can't sacrifice the needs of the few for the needs of the many; because he _needs_ Hermann, in this visceral way; the knowledge that, though he'll survive, he'll breathe, just fine if Hermann's gone, he won't _live;_ not without him, not after this long.

So; here they are.

There's a barrier between him and the other man; bars, actually. He's in a jail-cell, though, so that makes sense. Hah. Tossed down here with another one of the PPDC's miscreants.

The Precursors are sitting in the background, for now; can't seem to be bothered to do anything, now, restrained. Oh, they will, eventually, of course—it's only a matter of time, but for now, they're more than content to leave Newt himself to deal with the cold, the fear, and the shitty rations.

"What're you in for?" Newt asks, conversationally; because this is the first person besides the guards he's seen in—god, who knows how long. A _while._

The man doesn't reply, but that's fine. Newt's used to people not replying—whether because they don't give a _damn_ about what he's saying and hope the silence will shut him up, or because he's trapped in his own mind and can't actually _speak._

"I've been mind-controlled by aliens for the last ten years," Newt continues; matter-of-factly, and glances at the man again. He makes no sound; just sits there, curled in on himself a bit, face hidden by the hood of his sweater; overlarge. Newt goes on. "I didn't want to, really. Honestly, I tried to fight it.

"They cornered me, though, in the end. Shitty bastards get me, like a fucking TV show, and They say—um," he adopts a dry tone; goes for narrator; _hello, audience,_ he thinks, and goes on. "If I cooperate, They say, this will be easier on everyone. Easier on Hermann. All I need to do is exactly what They say when I am allowed to step forward. As long as I don't let on that They are here then we can stay with Hermann. I stay still and I listen and there are times when I am allowed to step forward and I am given the chance to speak to him." He pauses; laughs, softly. "They say these are small tests and if I keep passing them They'll know They can trust me. I want Them to know I can be trusted. I will cooperate. Course," he grins ruefully, "They don't hold up their end of the promise, though I should probably have guessed that."

There's a silence as Newt stops talking; lost, for a moment, in thought.

"They're gone, now, though, don't worry," he says; as an afterthought. "I've, uh, been cleared by medical—'s why I'm down here instead of in the max security holding cell like at the beginning. I'm not, uh, going to reach through the bars and try and strangle you to death or anything."

And _that,_ really, isn't what he should have said, given—well, _everything,_ with Hermann, but it's out of his mouth already so the best he can do is cringe away from the words like they're going to hurt him, which, really, isn't an inaccurate assessment of the situation.

He should stop talking about this, probably; but it seems that once he's gotten going, there's nothing that's going to stop him. He understands, suddenly, why it annoys people.

"He was supposed to visit, you know," he says; knowing that the seemingly random change in topic won't make sense to the other man. "Today, actually—'bout half an hour ago, but I could be wrong, given that my internal clock _sucks._ I mean," he's rambling, now, and he knows it, but he can't stop; not now. "I wasn't— _expecting_ him to, honestly, but it would have been… _nice._ "

He sighs softly; shifts, leaning against the wall; closes his eyes.

In doing so, he almost misses the half-whispered, "Newton."

 _Almost._

His shoulders snap back; tense, for—what, he doesn't know. The voice is familiar; of course it is; no one else ever says his name like that.

"Dick move," he croaks, after a few shuddering breaths; opens his eyes and finds the other looking back at him, the hood down; his hair sticking up a bit on end. It's one of Newt's old hoodies, he realises, after a moment; the image dredged up from the depths of his memory.

Hermann gives a one-shouldered shrug. "I wasn't sure what to say," he says, and his voice is as uncertain and hoarse as Newt's feeling.

Newt laughs; relief, a bit; and tips his head forward, chin to chest. "You and me both, bud," he says, quietly. "You and me both."

They sit, silently, unmoving, for a long, long time, and then Hermann says, tentatively, "Can I—?", his hand reaching to the bars; waiting, and Newt nods silently; scoots closer so that he can reach. Hermann's hand settles on his, and he doesn't say anything.

"Thanks for coming," Newt says, after a few beats; the words barely making it out; caught up, still, honestly, in the sensation of Hermann's skin, even through the fabric of his pants.

Hermann gives a careful, half-faltering smile. "Of course," he says.


End file.
